


Firebreather

by extraneous_solution



Series: Graywynd's Legacy [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming of Age, Dark, Dark Fantasy, Dragons, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Parent(s), Please be gentle, Slow Burn, but it has never left me, like the sloooowest of burns, refugee from fanfiction.net, this fanfic is sooo old, this fic has big dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2019-08-21 18:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 144,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16581986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extraneous_solution/pseuds/extraneous_solution
Summary: After Smaug's death, Gandalf had thought he had heard the last about dragons. Yet across Middle Earth, whispers of a girl crying about a long-forgotten winged menace greatly concerned the grey wizard. Taking the scarred child under his care, the Istari searched far and wide for answers to questions only she could ask. Who had Gostir, the cold-drake from the Northern Wastes, truly been? And why was a frightened child asking about his name in particular? Zerith Graywynd's story started with a breath of flame and a promise of a prophecy that would forever change Middle-Earth and the fate of the Free Peoples.[First story in a hopeful trilogy. Takes place post-Hobbit and pre-LOTR.]





	1. A Chance Arrangment

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone,
> 
> This is my first AOOO fic and my first comprehensive fanfic. This was originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2014 but I gave up on it after a few chapters due to irl stuff. I can't get back into my fanfiction.net account for some reason so I am restarting my fanfic here (plus AOOO is better just sayin'). Still, the plot has never left my brain. I've been neglecting my creative writing itch lately and burnt myself out on video games so now was the best time to return to this fanfiction! As time passed, I came up with a trilogy idea for my main character, Zerith. The first 6 chapters are from me in the 2014-15 era. The 7th is mostly me circa 2018. I really appreciate any comments or feedback you would like to give. It is because of you that I grow as a writer and a person. Best regards and I hope you enjoy this written work of mine. :)

**Chapter One: A Chance Arrangement**

The Valar have a grand sense of humor. To Men, Elves, and Dwarves alike, they who saw so much evil once believed that it could not be immortal, that it can be defeated, and once gone, the whispers of its name will fade from history, becoming only a vague memory to those who once combated it. Yet why could evil disappear yet hang so high in the sky, gazing down upon Middle Earth like a Great Eagle searching for its prey? Who would think to look up at the grey clouds, seeing in them not the presence of rain that would bring youth, life, and growth, but the resurgence of evil?

-o-

Gandalf knew very well that The Necromancer would return one day, when he found in him new power and strength as well as an abundance of new allies to serve him. After he had seen Bilbo off, Gandalf began his research and travel across Middle Earth, learning as much as he could about the inevitable evil that would rise up, and about the mysterious ring Bilbo had found. Such a curious thing that the hobbit prided himself over, and even Gandalf's kind visage couldn't forget that such powerful items had secrets.

His travels brought him one stormy night in The Prancing Pony in the settlement of Bree, where he had stopped to rest after a visit with Bilbo at The Shire. The men in town seemed particularly apt in hushed chatter and gossip that night, and it was enough for the wizard to raise a bushy eyebrow at. Of the conversations around him at the crowded tavern, he could pick up only tidbits. It seemed that the name Gostir was on many a tongue, and when mentioned, the expressions on people's faces were often disbelief, suspicion, and even amusement.

 _Gostir…_ The name was a vague one to Gandalf. After Smaug had been vanquished, were more rumors of dragons bound to pop up across the land? Little to nothing was known about the ancient dragon who was said to have been slain by warriors north of the Withered Heath. Nothing to worry about, assuredly, but as Gandalf retreated to his room where he longed so very much to retire to, he found one of the many books he had carried along his journey, and with the glow of a candle and puff of his pipe, began flipping the pages of a tome on dragons to recall Gostir.

_"One of the most mysterious dragons known to Middle Earth was Gostir, he who had a Dread Glance. His spotted grey wings were stained in the blood of his brethren, and eventually, that of Men in the late First Age. Smaller than his father, the Father of Dragons Glaurung, he was still a mighty sight, with his scales that were like sharpened scythes. Little is known of his early life, as he maintained a constant vigil among the peaks of Ered Lithui. The great winged beast did not act like the Dragons Middle Earth knew. Instead he pitied man for their weakness, and scorned his greedy kind. This did not stop the people that lurked near the home of Dragons far west of the Iron Hills from drawing their swords and bows against him. When his wings cast a great shadow over Rhovanion and Mirkwood as he longed to return to his home, those who would raise their weapons up met him before he could reach mountains of refuge. Who was he to claim himself unaffected by greed and pride of his kind, when he did not look upon them as they starved and froze and suffered nature's wrath? Could he pity them when he sat upon a great high, with his wings catching the wind and his hunt easy? All dragons had an urge to dominate, and they were created by Melkor to wreak havoc upon mortal kind._

_Even when his life was threatened and his eyes could clearly see what the people suffered, he remained wordless, so their arrows struck his breast when fire met shields and flesh. They burned and they bled because rage and sorrow was too much of a burden to bear when they watched their children die. Many of them lost their lives to fight the injustice of ignorance, but they had at last found their peace when the dragon lay at their feet. Even as he gave his dying breath and the men lowered their guard for a time of respite, they still heard his fell voice in a whisper on the wind. Sweat was a sheen on their brows as though the dragon's fire still roared. Justice was done for them, and they could go back to wife and children with livened hope. Still, as evil cannot be immortal, and justice comes eventually to all, they would continue to feel his gaze upon them and the heaviness of his breath in the air they breathed._

_Their people would die out slowly, but when at last their kind dwindled, a prophecy was struck in stone laying at their feet. A message from heavens and stars above! Oh, joy they felt that they could be guided with purpose after so many tears shed at their lost people and livelihood. It was not a blessing that they felt, but an evil omen. Their dreaded foe was truly not dead. His soul lingered among the stars and heavens, waiting to be reborn inside of the humanoids that roamed the land. The time when he would seek to claim a body would be a dawning age of bloodshed and brutality, as well as sacrifice. When evil from Valar above would try to claim power, Gostir would return. To the dying group of people who were delivered this prophecy, vengeance and dread filled their hearts, though the message before them spoke of no evil from the dragon's soul directly. A strange thing it was, but perhaps when he would reappear there would be another foe? It seemed clear to the people what their next steps were. This token from deities who saw past, present, and future altogether must be relayed to every man and woman that claimed life upon Middle Earth. With the little men and women the people below the Iron Hills had, they slowly began to disperse and mingle among the races to make faint murmurs of what was relayed to them. Not enough to stir up panic, but enough for this passage to be written, and for the dear reader to heed its words._

_When Gostir returns, if there is a chance given by the Valar for him to breathe in the breeze again, know that past evil does not always mean future evil. Be wary and vigilant, for if you come across a peculiar male who stands out among his kind, think back to what I have told you, and remember that evil may not be far ahead."_

Little, Gandalf mused, was known on Gostir still, as the passage retelling the dragon's life was minuscule compared to what other sections of the book proclaimed. Still, it was enough to make him rub his beard in contemplation. Why would common men who had more important things to worry about than long-lost prophecies and stories told by wiser people be whispering about a dead dragon all of a sudden? The answer could have been clear, but Gandalf would not be one to assume. His eyes were tired and the candle wax dripped with melancholy of burning as the hour was late. Retiring his pipe and hat upon the chest top at the foot of his bed, he knew that such an investigation would have to wait until morning. He'd had enough of dragons for a lifetime, anyway.

-o-

Dawn approached with the singing and chatter of birds, but ceased the chatter of dragons. The men and women of Bree still had their conversations that were out of place, but the subject had changed to Edoras. It wasn't uncommon for them to talk about the capital city of Rohan, but the city was fairly common in its dealings, and the people's topics of conversation were anything but. Some idle prattle about a young girl appearing from Minas Tirith begging for information on a most peculiar name. She had been there for a week, and frankly it was getting on everyone's nerves. A useless rumor of course, nothing out of the ordinary except a strange girl who poked her nose into things she should not meddle with. She was clearly desperate and oblivious to the people's suspicion around her, and she grated everyone's nerves.

Gandalf was ready to set out to see where the wind might take him for news he might uncover, but the same rumor about the girl was repeated among the people. As he made his way close to the gates, he stopped a man who seemed to know more than the rest about Edoras.

"Forgive me, but have you any news of what goes on in Edoras?" The wizard examined the man's face, clean of dirt that plagued the people. He spoke with a kind voice, as the old man in him would to use to his advantage subconsciously.

"Aye, sir. The people are as hungry as ever, bless the Rohirrim. I don't know why you would care, sir. Not much has changed despite what happened east. Unless you are like all these folk who ask the same question, about the madness that has seemed to have appeared from The White City. I swear, 'round here the people's eyes widen if they hear something that is more interesting than them milking cows and tending to children." The man did not look the part of a man from Rohan, and as he tended to his bay horse he seemed like a bird ready to bolt.

"Indeed. What is this 'madness' you speak of so feverishly?" Gandalf broached, coming closer to the man and watching him as he untied his mount from a pole by the gates.

At this, the man shook his head and smirked bitterly, spitting at the ground and digging his boots into soil. "More of a 'who' than a 'what'. In fact, I was the one who took her to the city. Paid me a measly sum to take her from The White City to Edoras. I cannot believe for the life a' me how young she was. Someone like that ought to still be suckling from her mother's breast." He chuckled and waggled his head again, and Gandalf resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow. "Ah, but you want to know more about 'er? She did not say much, but kept her face concealed in the shadows of a cloak. I tell ya', she couldn't have been older than thirteen winters. Spoke real pretty too with a fair face marred with fresh claw marks. Reckon a wolf got her before she found me posted at a tavern outside Minas Tirith. Seemed to be okay other than that."

"You did not ask the girl's name or any other information?" Gandalf was skeptical at this man, to ride with a child without parents and few words was not something becoming of an honorable man.

"Ah, you see, sir, in my line of work, some people are not the best a' people and need a quick getaway. Besides, she was quick to hurry me up after paying me." Without a glance, the man hoisted him up onto the saddle of his horse, though remaining stationary. "If you want to know more about your mystery madwoman, I would point ya' to the girl 'erself. Good day to ya'." With that, he rode off, disappearing among the sea of people crowding the gates at the time of the day. Looking to the sun, he pondered the man's words and suggestion. Perhaps a visit to Edoras was due, though he had little reason to pursue the girl. As he decided on his next course of action, he listened and watched as the people worked and chatted among themselves.

"I do hate t' repeat myself, dear sister, but the way the men described the wailing!" A woman burst out with laughter, covering her mouth with her hand as she toted a basket of bread and fruit beside another similar looking person. "'Please, does anyone know how to remove my curse? Please sir, my parents say that I have been corrupted. But whatever could I be corrupted from among smithies and guards of a white tree?"" Another jolt of laughter, but the woman's sister only shook her head.

"It was more like talk of children's stories, legends that would never come true. Perhaps a dragon was slain in the east, but why would a child talk of a different one, if any? She should worry about shaping up if she is to take a husband." The sterner, more mature voice of the mocking woman's sister commented as she wiped her pudgy face with a rag. "I swear, if one of those types comes into this fine settlement, off with her head and spit on her for good measure! We do not need unintelligent women who forget their femininity and grace."

"Ah, lighten up. You just say that because you are married and with children of your own, and your man runs off in the middle a' the night. I do hope that girl's tongue is silenced, though. I am sure that Rohan would sleep better without the voice of a whining child ringing in their dreams."

-o-

More talk passed through about the nameless girl who longed for stories of dragons who concealed her face from the world and travelled alone. As Gandalf sped down The Green Way without true cause or reason, he wondered how trivial such a pursuit would be. In his endless life he had no need to worry about whether it was a waste of time, though it was possible it could be taking up his time into learning of The Necromancer. He would hope that he would not miss too much on his way to Edoras. The North-South Road was the point of no return in which he would not change his mind, and he did not as he went back and forth between riding and resting. Past Isengard and the Fords of Isen he would go, letting the countless days of travel pass by, to finally gaze upon the towering city of Edoras.

A proud one it was, a grand settlement of men and women though how so much the Rohirrim suffered. Their faces never changed when encased in the city's walls. Valiant in battle they were, unafraid of death and destruction. He admired their strength and willpower, but here at their capital, sunken cheeks marred what he had once always seen. Strange how nature and fortune worked, for the people once had a bounty of food and resources.

He was given soft and weary looks as he passed through, pulling down the brim of his pointy hat so that he might conceal it from those who suspected at a glance. He was only here for one thing, a chance arrangement, perhaps fate or destiny, or perhaps he was foolhardy. He did not doubt his wisdom or instinct though. He had been sent to this earth for a reason, and reasons would he find to give, and receive in turn.

-o-

Eyes that once were hardened cried out desperation in turn. They were midnight blue nights without stars, and their owner was a dreary soul, like a wet rag slumping from the table top to the floor with all of its weight in clear water, such a burden it had to bear to do its job. Still, there was strength in it, resistance and will to hold its shape and not be overcome. Virtue and talent are useless without willpower, and though the young soul that sat hunched over on the ground as rain started to pour had little but a smoldering flame of it. She was too young to feel its heat in her bones and voice, to cry out against what went against what she desired. In this world where men ruled, she felt like a spineless shrew, yet she would still try and try, with all her might, though paltry.

She was the one who was most interested in a name that had once been a whisper of a dying people who bled and burned because rage was fire in their veins that did not burn like Gostir's mighty breath. As Gandalf approached her, he was taken aback by her appearance. Dripping wet jet black hair that was covered in as many braids as could fit, a dash of freckles upon her nose, and a sharp, intense look about her that held no fire. The most apparent thing to him were the bloody bandages wrapped around her head that barely allowed her to see. She had been attacked by a lone wolf when fleeing from something too terrible for her heart to bear any longer. It had struck two deep cuts upon her temple, one that went from her eyebrow to her temple, and another one that dripped fresh blood down her nose and ran beneath her eyes before meeting its sibling. Dried crimson was upon her cheek, lip, and ragged clothing which could only be somewhat dried by her moth-eaten cloak.

She watched him as he made his way toward her, frightened by how he did not shy away from her crying and yells of 'Please, anyone!' and 'Will no one aid me?'. Burrowing further into the shadows of her cover, she inched away from him as subtly as she could. The way he looked at her, such compassion in his features, was unknown to her. It struck a sharp chord in her heart and left panicked butterflies to gnaw at her insides. Her lips trembled for some words that they might give, a question, an answer, anything.

"Sir," she paused to look up meekly at his gaze as he had come to tower above her with his bushy eyebrows and beard, and a hat that would make her smile, if not for the current mood of the situation. "You are not like the others. A traveler, so I am sorry if I bothered you. Really, this Edoras is full of strong people. They have just had a bad turn of events. Do not think that my appearance is a common occurrence and annoyance." It was the best she could do quietly without her voice wavering so much that he might hear her fear in her rumblings.

"Be calm, young one. You are no bother to me, but a concern." He gave her a smile, for what it could be worth. "I am Gandalf. May I ask you for your name, dear girl?" She reminded him of a deer with the way she acted, but her angular features were wild and held determination even if the spirit did not.

"My name? Zerith, sir. It is a pleasure to meet you, Gandalf." She would remember her manners lest he be offended and disappear back to the people, another one who would demand that her shrill tongue be silenced. She realized that he was staring back at her still in anticipation. A surname? Family ties? She had left them all behind, for they were not truly hers, even through blood. It took only a moment for her to spit out a title she could conjure up. "Zerith Graywynd, lone daughter of Graywynd the Fearless, if that is what you want." She stared up at him with a soft smile as she replied, watching him with curiosity evident beneath the rags she called clothes.

"And to you, little one. You should not be out in this gathering storm, not with a fresh wound that has not been properly taken care of. If you would allow it, may I take a closer look at your forehead?" He offered a wrinkled, warm hand to help her up, and she gazed in wonder at it. _A kindly stranger for once who is not burdened by famine, but can he truly help me? I pray, how I pray…_ With great hesitation, she took his hand in her small pale one and rose to her feet with a shiver, balling up the ends of her cloak in fists as she tried to keep warm. At a beckon from the wizard, she followed him to a bench beneath a low hanging canopy of a house and sat down, staring at her feet with toes sticking out of worn shoes. He gently took her chin in his hands, forcing her stare upwards as he produced fresh, clean bandages and what she knew to be alcohol. Timidly she removed her cloak and unraveled the bandages which dampened her fingers with her lifeblood.

"It is bad, so forgive me for the sight. I just… there was nothing for me to do. The man who brought me here gave me the bandages, but that was a few days ago and the cuts are not doing well." Her eyes were glassy with tears and she could not bear to meet those soft eyes again that had made her heart warm with how much kindness he radiated, like her light in darkness.

The cuts were quite deep and the child could very well have been plunged in half-darkness had the wolf aimed any better for her eye. She winced as he pressed a cloth with the alcohol to her cuts and tears passed their cold gates to mix with her long, dark hair. He took in the way her gaze never faltered from his as she felt the sting of the sterilization, and how drenched in sorrow she seemed to be. Even as he replaced her bandages and gave a gentle squeeze of her hand, she still stared in deep contemplation. It was barely a whisper when she spoke, and were they in a noisier place, he wouldn't have heard it.

"Why have you come here, Gandalf? Those who approach me do not do it out of curiosity. If they were able, they might sew my lips together so that I might not ask for help because they can not give it and don't want to encourage my rambling." Her voice was rough, too mature for her, which brought him to speak.

"You are in need of aid, and I will give it. Tell me, how old are you? You should not be alone here, and you should not have come to this place." He studied her face as she crept away from him internally, and her mind began a debate. She would proceed very carefully.

"I am twelve winters, sir. There are many things that should not be done, but it does not stop anyone and it did not stop me. Where else would I go? Not to the elves, for I am not one of their kind and do not know how to approach them. I must go where someone might listen, might know, but I see that perhaps it was foolish of me to even try to discover my purpose." A long drawn out pause afterwards, where he saw her rise from her seat and strike a glance of him. It was defiance, and of what even she did not know, but it was a blaze of glory to achieve her dreams.

"Your parents are those who must care for you. Are you an orphan?"

"No, Gandalf. They are the reason I came here, for their hate for me is rooted from one thing that no one knows about. I trekked here to find someone who does. It was hard getting here. I had to steal money just to pay for someone to take me here, but that is not important now. Anyway, do you happen to know anything about dragons? Nobody here is offering anything on the matter, what with that dragon and the dwarves." Her every word was hesitant and afraid that his face might lose its soft composure of wisdom and age.

"Dragons? What might you be in need of knowledge of dragons for other than bedtime stories?"

She looked around at the people that slowly passed by, and they were out of earshot. "My parents told me that everyone was warned about someone like me. They say that a 'Ghost er' is plaguing me. Is it some sort of plague? What is a 'Ghost er'? Anyone who is not like me, not adults, I mean, keeps saying that. I do not understand." She displayed confusion, but her heart beat quickly with anxiety.

' _Ghost er'? A strange thing._ Though with the way she said it, it was a name, not a phrase. He came to a grim realization that she was indeed talking of a name. _Minas Tirith must have been especially wary when the people from the west of the Iron Hills traveled there to spread news of a prophecy carved in stone…_ Now, his heart fell for the young girl. He did not quite understand how her parents could have known that an ancient dragon's soul lived inside her, nor why they stayed their hands. To harm a child was heinous, but Gostir was always treated like a monster that must be exterminated as soon as he appears again.

His wonder caused his voice to deepen. "And how could they have known that this 'Ghost er' was plaguing you, as you say?"

"Well," she drew closer to him to speak in a hushed voice. "One day, as I was helping my mother prepare food, there came a knock upon our door. I answered at my mother's beckon, and outside there were some cruel children who loved to belittle me and throw dirt at me. They started to call me names, and instead of being sad, I got really angry. I felt really warm, like I could explode, and as soon as I opened my mouth, there was fire in my voice! I do not know how I did it, I swear! It was enough to make my mother run for me and the children outside. I looked up at her for consolation, but there was only…" Her voice trembled, and she pulled away from him. "Disgust. Like I was foreign." Shaking her head, she sat upon a bench. "I should not have told you. It is not a good thing, I know. Once people heard about what happened, they knew something I did not and whatever it was is not good."

What could he do with the child was now the question at large. It was obvious that no one would take her in, and that she could not control whatever it was that brought out the unnatural part of her. "I am here to help you, but you cannot stay here. I believe that I know what troubles you greatly, but you must learn to control it."

"What am I to do? Where can I go?" She looked to him for guidance, the innocence of purity in her eyes that clouded everything within her.

"I will find somewhere for you to live, and I will help you to understand. You cannot return to your parents, nor tell anyone of this. Trust can dissolve easily with those who know what true fear feels like instilled inside of them." He was apprehensive, but had little choice. She must be protected, from others and more importantly, herself. Balance must be found.

"I have no choice, and thank you for your help, but why will people hate if they know something like that happened? In the darkest recesses of herself, she knew the reason even if her consciousness couldn't delve into its murky waters.

"You are a fire breather, with a strong grasp on freedom and strength, but with so much to hold your life in the balance."


	2. Her Light in Darkness

**Chapter Two: Her Light in Darkness**

He did not have a place to live permanently, per se, and knew of no one that could handle her enigmatic ways, so Gandalf and Zerith set out the next day after their first meeting to find a home. Unfortunately not far ahead in their journey their only horse had spooked and bolted, leaving them to travel for weeks on foot. It was very dangerous, but the wizard kept them well concealed from any foes. Between travelling and resting, the two learned much about each other. The girl learned quickly that Gandalf was an Istari wizard, much to her surprise and befuddlement, but when she asked what  _ she  _ was, he responded with a typical 'when you are older'. The only response that differed was when she asked a similar question, or at least in her mind.

"Am I a monster?" Asked upon the route of following the River Loudwater upstream, she said it with little emotion, as though she were wondering something that had no emotional value. Her question made him give her a stern look that was replaced with comfort once he saw her hands move to her heart. "Monsters are caged to protect others. Is that where I will live? A cage?"

He contemplated her words, though he knew her question's answer. He just did not know why she would ask such a thing. She was unlike any other child who had little to worry about on the grand philosophical scheme of things, and she worried him greatly. However, he understood how she might feel. Alone, isolated, very frightened. It was evident in her eyes, even if her face became a cold, stone mask.

"You are a girl, a spirited one, and certainly not a monster. There is darkness everywhere across this land, passing over no one. You must remember that." He put a hand upon her shoulder, looking to the distant trees of the elves' lost kingdom behind them, knowing that they had come awfully far, and then looked down upon the girl, who had a soft smile on her face.

"Perhaps I will forget, but I have you to remind me of that when I do not have the willpower to." Her voice was a soft murmur that he heard for longer than it was spoken. "Anyway, never mind me, but where are we going, exactly?" She directed her question to him as they walked side by side, her inquisitive gaze observing the hilly land around them for anything unusual.

"There is a grove of trees where the two rivers here meet. I had once passed through here, and found an abandoned cottage at the intersection. A curious thing, for few humans make their homes close to elven lands. You will be well off, there." He kept his voice low, not trusting the open land after all that Thorin and his company had come across. It seemed like evil was appearing more and more in the most cut-off, desolate of places.

"Would I? Well, I suppose if it is abandoned and not close to anyone, it might be alright, but I thought this part of the land was populated with all sorts of creatures!" She shuddered, hopping over stones in their way as the old wizard followed steadily with his staff. "I believe too much in children's stories." The young girl laughed, rambling into idle, companion conversations.

When at last they came upon the intersection of the two roaring rivers Gandalf had spoken of, the two observed the area before them. The area surrounding the river was rocky and steep, cut by many years of water running through. It faded into dry grass and pine trees that spanned to just before the Trollshaws. It was certainly  _ not  _ the safest place, but the trolls would mind to the road and they would be alright, for a while, at least until he could think up some plan for what to do with the child. He could not take her to the elves, for they scorned all dragons for their greed and destruction. Men had proven that they were not trusting, and the dwarves were few and had too many problems concerning dragons already for lifetimes. It would be a lie to say that Gandalf himself fully trusted the girl. It was not her that made him wary, it was her soul, and its connection with evil. Melkor himself had created dragons for vile purposes, and the lines of darkness were tethered to that soul just like any dragon. Nienna in all her glory would feel undying pity for the child, and he did feel compassionate, but it was a gamble, a knife in the dark that could take the lives of many if Zerith was not taught to control herself. He was yet to tell her of what she was, because she seemed to know how much weighed down upon her and he did not want to bring more than what scorn and strife was already given. He would have to tell her  _ sometime _ , but it was a conversation both of them were not ready for.

They approached the river, and to an overturned set of flat boulders that allowed for them to cross the river while remaining somewhat dry. Zerith was first, hiking her dress up to her knees and giggling with delight as her energetic feet were aptly hopping across before she came to a stop at the other side, patiently waiting for her elder. "That was fun," she exclaimed loudly, watching Gandalf's strides, "such a pretty river!" When he was near her, she let him take the lead through the dense forests, following carefully ahead through the tangle of roots. Her fear of the darkness in the mist kept her quiet as she kept close to him.

Just a little farther, a large patch of light shone upon a small, two story cottage. It was run down, weeds and other plants growing vividly surrounding it, however it looked like it had a strong structure and had been left untouched by anything that might meddle with it. Before they came any closer, Gandalf made the girl wait at the edge of the tree line so that he might take a closer look. Passing through the squeaky door, he glossed over the dusty wooden table and chairs before a long-cold fireplace, the creaking stairs which produced the upper level's three rooms, and to his surprise, found that most everything was furnished. This was decent, far better than what Zerith had previously had, anyway. Her family was one that had a habit of making too many drunken bets that they could not pay for.

Zerith smiled at him with relief once he beckoned her inside, and ran to his side to see what her new home was like. She did not mind the dust or cobwebs, and strangely began to clean the place. After given a lengthy eyebrow raise from her wizardly companion, she grinned with her back turned as she vigorously scrubbed at one of the bedroom's nightstands and offered a brief explanation. "The sooner it is cleaner, the sooner it is home." Yes, home, he thought. He would call it his home, though he knew he would not be able to be around as much as the girl would have liked. For the time being, though, it was the best the two of them would get.

-o-

A year's time had passed, and the two had found themselves to make the cottage a true place to live in. Gandalf stayed there for a while to watch the girl adjust to her new life. She longed for him to stay always and it was getting harder to come up with excuses for his lengthy trips away. One day, he returned from a visit in Rivendell to find the area eerily quiet. Calling out her name produced no reply, and he searched the whole nooks and crannies for the adolescent to no avail. When at last his anxiety was on edge, he heard the clashing of metal from the cellar below the main living area. There was no reason for her to be down there, and he raced to the lower stairs, fearing assailants had taken her. What he found was enough to puzzle him.

"Hyah!" The girl rallied a war cry, bashing the heavy shield she carried on her left arm at her enemy's hips. "Take that, you foe!" Slashing her sword at the shoulder, she ducked at a blow coming for her head and raised her shield in defense. "Fight me! I stand for all of us!" was triumph's shout in her voice, valiant words that boosted her speed.

In her mind, she imagined her rival dueling her viciously as she protected everything she cared for. She imagined how the world would be seen from a helmet, and how the ring of metal upon her armor would resound. She saw not in the straw-stuffed training dummy just what it was; it invoked visions of great battles to root out all evil. She was not a girl, but a great warrior that people would look up to. It was perfect in her brain but sadly did not equate to the real world.

Continuing her great battle against the battered dummy, Gandalf crept silently behind her, wondering what flooded her mind and gave her such an idea to do this. He could not suppress the chuckle that escaped his mouth, and immediately Zerith swung around, sword and shield flinging about as the wizard raised his staff to parry her frantic blow. Meeting his eyes as she saw he was no stranger come to fight her, she had a wild look and her long, free hair whipped about her face. Her look of mid-battle changed to embarrassment as he continued to laugh, and she stared into the dull metal of her sword for a long time before he recovered himself to inquire.

"Where did you find those? I know I did not bring them." She lay the old sword and shield at her feet, motioning towards a broken-in crate in the corner of the dank cellar. "You quite like to investigate things, Zerith, my dear girl." He smiled, though his eyes swam with worry. She had ideas that would never come true, dreams that were far-fetched. A life of battle wasn't what he wanted for her, and the dangers of it were too many.

"Where do you think I got that from?" She joked, picking up her weapons again. "At Minas Tirith, I saw the guardsmen once battling a thief who had a shortsword. My mother beckoned me not to watch as he would be given an imminent death, but I stood in awe as the guards fought, how there was grace and fluidity in their swings. I wanted to do that, to be part of something that defends. I know what you are thinking…" She met his gaze with anguish. "It is not my place. I am a woman, and we are supposed to do simple things. We bear children and raise them so that they might make something of themselves. This is not what I want. I will not be chained to someone or something. I want to be free from everything, to shape my life as I see fit." Her face and hands contorted in a look of fervid passion for what she felt. "It is  _ not  _ my place. When has anywhere ever been?" She whipped around to face the dummy, running the flat part of her blade upon a long cut she'd ripped out of the canvas.

"You have no use for this. Men would not accept you. Where would you fight if you were not a lone warrior?" He asked her with disapproval, coming to her side as she kept her eyes focused on the dummy. "It would mean certain death. You know this."

"And yet I persist." She interjected, looking at him from the corner of her eye. "What happens when you are gone and I'm alone? What happens when there is danger and you are not here? Unless you can magically appear at my side like lightning, then I would be finished." He heard the anger in her voice that she tried not to direct to him and he knew that she had a point, but watched as she was fatigued by holding the heavy weapons. Thirteen cycles of seasons had passed in her life, and though she was strong of heart, her arms could not bear the weight of such weapons at this age, not without rigorous training.

"You do not know how to fight. You can barely carry such weapons." He noted to her at his observation, and she shrugged off his words. Irritation was beginning to prickle in his voice. "You are not strong enough. Your body cannot handle such exercises constantly at your age."

"I am not  _ afraid. _ " She proclaimed angrily, turning to face him. "I am not afraid of pain, blood, or even death. To die in battle would be glorious, a worthy sacrifice." Her words were the most naïve she had ever been. With his staff, he swiped and brought her feet from right under her, leaving her to fall to the ground with a cry and let her sword clatter behind her. Her eyes were wide with surprise.

"Foolish, foolish!" He returned his staff to stand at his side in his grasp. "Do not tell me you are not afraid when you have not experienced any of those things. I will not bear to hear such words come out of your mouth. You cannot fight. You do not know what death truly is. You are  _ not  _ ready." Her eyes brimmed with tears out of frustration and her head bobbed as she swallowed the sting of them down that would curse her voice with their heaviness.

"Then teach me." Those were the words she said clearly though he wasn't sure he had heard them straight. "Teach me." She repeated, stronger and louder, rising to her feet and grabbing the sword. "You are right, but I am too, occasionally. I will not go off spinning dreams of battle in my head if you  _ teach me. _ " Her resolution was set in stone that had prophesied her coming, and he could not ignore the way she looked. Her stance was determined, her eyes spoke of fire, and her hands gripped her weapons so tightly. Her head was high, confident.

"It will be hard, long, daunting, and relentless. I will hear no complaining from you if you are colored with bruises to show for what you wish for." A single nod was his reply, and he rested his hand upon her shoulder in comfort and finalization.

-o-

His warnings were true, and even when her seventeenth year had passed, she still found herself black and blue from sparring with Gandalf. Still, her hard work had paid off. He had even found time to teach her elvish, and there was always a smile on her face on the days of her lessons. She was tall and willowy with a widened stance, and found that she could fight very well keeping a defensive stand with a sword and shield. However, when taking up the bow, it was rare for her to even come close to her mark, posture being too stiff when the string was drawn back. When she hunted and scouted the lands surrounding the cottage and came across prey that she would take down, she had to sneak very close just to have a slim chance. Gandalf found that he would spend less on meat and more on the arrows she had wasted with her poor aim.

She had changed so much, but so little. She had always had a look of determination in her face, and the two twin ragged scars on her left side of her face intensified it. What troubled Gandalf was how she had darkened. She would talk about things he had never told her or taught her about that were not in any of the books he kept around, and would give him the strangest of looks when talking about particular topics. He had feared this would happen, and berated himself on how little he had learned of Gostir and the prophecy of his return in her. He had never managed to travel to the site where the ancient words were carved into stone from the Valar above, for the journey was too long, but the time was soon approaching when he might have to.

-o-

_ "The girl does not know of what will come. I thought she would be better informed, my lord." A woman's voice throughout the darkness of Zerith's mind echoed. She sounded mature, ancient, and somehow she knew the woman to be an elleth. _

_ "As did I, loyal one. It will begin soon. It will consume her, of this I have no doubt." Now an old man's, who was clearly superior to the other. _

_ "But it will be too early for his return. People can be… resourceful. They will find a way. They know of Gostir's name." _

_ "Silence. It will work, and even the Valar themselves will be in awe of how easily their playthings bend. Now, come, and we will talk to our master about what comes next." The man's voice faded, as did two pairs of footsteps, and Zerith was left in black silence. _

A searing pain cut through her temple and chest as she woke from the dream in a cold sweat. When she saw a shadow over her, she reached for a weapon from behind her pillow, a knife, and brandished it towards the one who loomed over.

"Gandalf…" She whispered heavily, lowering her weapon as she whimpered in the pain that she tried to resist.

"Easy, now. Are you hurt? What happened?" He knelt by her bedside and took her clammy hand, and she found her words when the pain finally receded.

"I was asleep, and I had a dream. A man, and an elleth were speaking. I only heard their voices, I saw nothing but darkness. There was that name again. Gostir." She said her words slowly as Gandalf studied her face with concern. "It is always that name, no one else."

"There have been other dreams like this?"

"Strange dreams, yes, but not like this. When I woke up, there was terrible pain in my head and chest, like someone was tearing a hole out of me from inside." Shivering, she brought the blankets of her bed to her chin, and focused on her breathing as they fell into an uncomfortable silence. "Why is it always that name? You were the first person to tell me of it other than my parents. I do not understand." She muttered, looking to him for guidance.

"Always that name. I have never told you because you were not ready. I thought we both had time to sort things out. I have dreaded this day." His face was pained, and he could not look at her. He had no more words, but he had to finally tell her. The turning point had come, and neither of them were ready for it. To make up for his lack of words to give, he went and found his book on dragons that he had read that night in The Prancing Pony, and turned it to where it mentioned Gostir. She read it as though it might explain what was going on, but when the passage ended and it did not, she was filled with questions.

"Just tell me what this has to do with me." It was a simple, direct question she had settled on, and a tough one from the looks of it.

"The prophecy." He whispered, and yet she still stared on. "The soul of Gostir lies in you."

"Nothing else? You will offer me nothing else?" She stared at her bedroom window in disbelief. "Then I  _ am  _ a monster. Everything you told me was a lie, then? The fire I spurted out just because of this? Because I have a seemingly-dead dragon's soul in me, everything has happened because of it? People hate me, I feel strange, have these dreams, and everything else? How could you not  _ tell me? _ " Her face which once offered calm tranquility was wet with tears. "That is why everyone hates me. It is the reason for everything in my life! It all makes sense, but they did not slay me as they should have. Child or not, I am just a-"

"You are not a monster, but terrible things may come to you if we do not find some way to protect you from it. I am sorry, Zerith. I have had so long to figure out how to prevent this from happening, and I have found little." His eyes were weary and voice haggard.

"What does this mean, then? What does this mark the beginning of?" It had become easier for him to answer her questions now that she knew. A great burden was lifted off of him and placed on her.

"You are more susceptible to darkness, now. Do you know who created dragons?"

"Melkor," she replied, remembering her countless days and nights spent reading and learning everything there was to know. "So, I am connected to Melkor somehow? That is comforting."

"Perhaps. None can escape his pull, nor of their vices. Gostir attempted to, but living in the Ered Lithui must have taken its toll on his will to resist such dark allure. Secrets lay in those mountains…" Gandalf paced around the room with his companion's eyes following.

"That is not good." She grumbled worriedly pulling back the blankets and crossing her legs. She repeated those words to herself over and over before finding something better to say. "So, what exactly does this mean for me? Since I breathed fire, I suppose that is one thing. Does this mean I have an inborn ability like fire-breathing dragons do or something? Does it say something in this book about it?" Tapping the front cover, she watched his pacing.

"You ask questions that I do not have an answer to, and for that, I apologize." He sat on the edge of her bed and studied her face. "Tell me, what did you feel that day that spouted fire from your breath?"

She closed her eyes, searching deep inside her mind, past the happy days the two of them shared in her new life, past the laughter of an afternoon telling stories and sharing experiences, to the times when her memory was monochrome; there, she found the rage and  _ pride  _ that threatened to alienate her upon that day when the hammer crashed down upon the anvil. She recounted their words, how they were fire, and how much they  _ burned her, with their laughter and smiles that shattered her patient temper. _ Gathering every emotion, she spoke as if she were in a dream. "Their words were sharp knives and I lost myself. Every ounce of me fell apart that day to rebuild into someone who  _ was not me. _ My thoughts, my words, not my own.  _ How dare they come to a place of my refuge and respite and intrude upon my peace! _ All at once when I tried to use calm words despite boiling anger, my voice uttered something that I had never heard before, and turned into the burning inferno. Luckily it lasted for only a second, for my panic brought me out of my spell. I felt the fire still long after it had passed, how it had touched my lips and not burned me, and  _ I liked the way the children screamed and practically bowed down to miss my rampage."  _ Her midnight blue eyes swam in shame and her voice rose an octave with every sentence. "I do not know who I had become. I do not know who I am now. I am not the Zerith I once was, and I do not think I can overcome this invisible force that wants to destroy me." With her last words, they sat in silence, watching each other, waiting for someone to speak. "You know I will try my best, but I am not strong enough…"

"You are strong enough to battle anything," Gandalf encouraged, but it was a lie. To battle a dragon from her  _ mind  _ was something no one could defeat. It was not simply another Smaug come to steal treasure and burn everything in his wake, this was a soul who desperately wanted out. There was no way to fight some monster of the mind, something that he barely knew about. He felt for the girl—woman—he had saved from living a life as a pariah, but now he would lose her so easily. "There must be some way to fix this."

"Gandalf," a question peaked the woman's interest. "You could not have been the only one to research on Gostir. I mean, I know there was the people from the Iron Hills, but certainly someone else must have wanted to know more? If that' is the case, maybe we could find them and see if they have dug up anything to help us." It was a shot in the dark, an attempt at regaining her light in darkness that would fade by the days.

He grinned at the thought, and wondered why he could have forgotten such a thing. "I believe there was one elleth who stuck her nose into more than her kind liked out of her, though that was a very long time ago. Her name was Uirien, and she had started her research just after word spread of the prophecy. She was too spirited, as I heard. The elves spoke little of her, but it would be best to search the South Downs for any signs of her."

"The South Downs? She would not be with other elves?"

"She much preferred to observe other races, but disliked isolation so she stayed close to others. Her Elf-magic was strengthened by her abundance of knowledge, but at the price of having a weak mind."

"A weak mind?"

"Yes, she was prone to corruption and darkness, for knowledge has a price and she was willing to pay it."

"You mean she is dead?"

"No, not dead. It would do her no good." Examining the ends of his sleeves, his eyes reflected great memory. "Much different from her kind, though. It would take us a few days to reach her, though you seem ill."

"Ill?" She laughed breathlessly. "Not physically, but there  _ is  _ a battle raging on that is not doing wonders for my soul, I can tell you that." Her smile did not quite have him fooled.

"Your soul is not your own." He grimly reminded, and her smile deepened as she marked the beginnings of him developing pessimism.

"Gostir is a part of me that you cannot simply replace. Who would I be but a cold, tranquil being without his fire? Without his attitude? His faults? Everyone has some darkness in them. You are the one who has taught me that, and if we can find some way to let it not consume me, that would be fine, too." Her sorrow had faded from her eyes and was replaced with determined fire, and he saw from what she said that part of it was  _ his  _ determined fire. He could imagine how her wings would fly if she were him, how she would pity man and long for freedom from invisible chains that Melkor and The Necromancer pulled. Now, he must free her from them, lest she be dragged down into the depths of moral sickness and corruption.


	3. A Shot in the Dark

**Chapter Three: A Shot In The Dark**

Despite his constant prodding, she was always so stubborn, insisting that she come upon the journey to learn of Uirien, using the reason that it was on her behalf, and that she would be safer and more comfortable in his company, anyway. He did agree with the point that she might be safer with him constantly around. He was not worried about highwaymen, bandits, or anything that might come to the cottage. Zerith was plenty capable of defending herself, or at the very least running and/or hiding, but there was a new dawning threat on the horizon: Gostir. Books could write him off as  _ redeemable, _ saying that he tried to resist Melkor's influence on him, but he had given in, and that to him was the only thing. Perhaps there was a time when he was not a terror, but that time had long passed and he doubted it would ever return. He wanted his way out of his host, feeding off of her like a parasite, so that he could return to spread his master's discord, and Valar help Gandalf if after everything both him and Graywynd had been through, he'd end up slaying  _ her.  _ He would not bear such dark thoughts.

In her eyes he saw a dark storm, a wild night where rain drenched everything and lightning cracked the sky. The skies were dark but the stars held their light throughout the moon's commanding it be covered by black. There, he could see Gostir's wings upon the high, like tattered, greying sails, weathered but resistant, strong and lasting. They sailed to places which men dreamed of, and their leather reflected fire that the owner would command; to burn or to spare. _ He was her.  _ She would go to great places, though battered and bruised, she would still reside and have the courage to fight. She would be a catalyst for change. For good or evil, he saw all of this within a simple gaze, as though the Valar had allowed him to. He also saw the fear that ate at her, that would always because of what she knew she was. Her optimism convinced herself, and he wished it helped himself as well. Her walls were up and she flew banners from them, displaying courage and the will to fight for freedom, but they would be torn down if they could not find some way to stop the dreams from eating her away.

-o-

Dreams were a strange thing, stranger so to be a weapon. It was a time when her mind was vulnerable, when Gostir ruled instead of herself. He would show her things that she would pace to find meanings for; insanity was his reason, to drive her further to the edge where she would plummet. The dragon was not himself, no matter how filled with vice and promises he was. He was not like other reptilians of his kind who prowled Middle Earth once. He had been able to resist before, but the darkness had used the same methods to reel him in as he was doing now to the woman. Using his baser instincts of pride and greed, of offers of great power and eternal life in exchange for eternal servitude to his dying days. Even he was not able to resist such temptation, and a woman certainly could not do any better. In a way, he was serving his masters. The body he inhabited would survive forever as long as he did his duty. He had his doubts of The Necromancer who he had greater ties to, but freedom was out of reach so it was never a thought, nor was finding harmony between dragon and woman. He wanted to breathe again, she just wanted to  _ keep breathing _ and not have the races of Middle Earth claiming that she is a heretic and going on a hunt for her head. Right now she had little to worry about; the memory of her strange self in Edoras had faded from the Rohirrim, and she had never dealt with elven kind. Even so, her problem was getting  _ worse.  _ She feared for her life if they could not find a solution to her curse soon.

-o-

The feeling of her shield upon her back and a sword in her sheath was comforting as they traveled slowly to the South Downs, though she would prefer to stay out of combat for safety's sake. Gandalf did not need her becoming a liability, and she knew that by his careful eye. He did not seem to want friendly conversation to pass the time either, for he was quick to hurry them along.  _ Perhaps this is worse than I thought,  _ she thought to herself as they found themselves looking towards the distant hills where their destination lay,  _ but it is my life on the line, so I did not expect sunshine and rainbows. Gods above, pray for me. What happens if we find nothing? What happens if Uirien will not help us? What if she does not even exist? Why was this curse brought upon me? Why am I part of a prophecy that seems like it is predetermined my fate from the begi- _ She ran into a hard back in her worrying and daydreaming. Gandalf stopped at a terrible path of destruction at the very top of the shortest hill of the group before them. It was charred to the very bones of the earth, mighty pillars of smoke billowed into the sky, and winged scavengers circled the site with a tone of doom. Whatever had happened there was some sort of massive slaughter and spread of destruction that the earth would not heal very easily if at all from. Whatever creature or person brought this upon the land, she did not know, and they had not seen hide nor hair of any armies or scouting bands. A mighty monster, a deranged sorcerer, an indomitable martyr, whoever had done this was no one she would like to cross paths—or blades— with. The warning signs coming from that pillar of earth kept her silent as they very slowly approached. As they traveled to climb the hill, she felt the green grass here that was wet with dew. Fresh, untarnished by animal or the tests of time, it withstood wherever it was allowed to grow, and Zerith grimaced at the thought of how so many things in this world were becoming parallel to her.  _ Freedom waits, or will I be taken before I lay my eyes upon paradise, even for a glimpse? _

That dreadful hill was gray and crimson, just the two dolling each other up for a grand showcase of bloodshed and burns. There were a half dozen men laying here upon the place of fate, laying their faces into mud and blood. A clear number of things had done them in; fire, blade, and some sort of unknown magic far more sinister. Their bodies were not yet stiff, and they were ghastly fresh. From what Zerith could stand to stomach, she did not have a doubt that they were from Gondor. Their hands clutched their flag of the White Tree with an ironically death-like grip. Everything about this place, the sights, and the sounds that were a stark contrast between horror and deadly silence in her point of view, the smells, the way the wild carried a foul message, it spoke of darkness and sin. She drew her sword as the two companions poked through the charred wreckage of a noble band of warriors. They had families, children, and she had believed this to be a peaceful time. There was no sign of animals that could have felled them, no footprints, nothing. If it was not for the sight, she would have thrown up by just how badly her heart was making her feel as she silently grieved for these men. She had not ever seen death like this, and it made her feel so naïve like she had regressed back to being a child who held no fear or respect for anyone.

"Whatever it was that brought these men here, it proved to be their undoing." Gandalf murmured woefully as he finished his search of an archer's pack. "Though I do not know what it was." His words fell on deaf ears, as Zerith's heart leapt out of her chest. Through her bones, her medium leather armor she wore, through her soul, it was like a ghost passed, like spirits of old had come to sing to her about her demise. Evil was its root, but something more buried within its song. It was like a fire had been extinguished within her suddenly and then let alive to roar and consume and destroy. She could not move her feet fast enough or grab her shield because her arms were so weak and their burdens too large. Spinning on her heel, she assumed a battle stance at the stranger that stood in front of them from where they had set foot.  _ Enemy, enemy.  _ She held up her sword and her strike would be her chord if this mystery presence did not reveal themselves before she lost all reasoning.

This person, this elleth, rather, was a fair face who smiled among the dead. She had come to harvest souls, standing among those who had come not for her, but for the legend she obsessed over. Her eyes were a deep steel that bore no love or true kindness, and her long, curly waves of hair billowing like a fan held mahogany tones, yet seemed to be gray and dull despite her immortality. She was dubbed in all black, and clutched a small, leather-bound book, giving the pair a 'friendly' look of an unmarred face and staring down at the men who lay broken before her.  _ "I am Uirien. I suggest that you look for a better place to travel to, Gandalf. People will think you are… up to something." _ Drawn back to the slippery sweat of her shaky hand on the hilt of her weapon, Graywynd's posture was stiff and still, breathless and silent.  _ Always let the wise, old one do the talking when dealing with crazy old bats. _

"You have done this, then? Killed innocent men who only wanted to protect their land?" Gandalf mimicked his companion in stance and she was surprised that he did not just blast her rump off the hill as soon as she could say 'Dragon'.

" _ Innocent? _ A strange time to be roaming the wilds for them, then. They were not protecting their land by being out here, they were hunting a myth. When they came upon me who could provide them with information on said myth, the fools based conclusions on whatever silly reasoning their dim-witted minds could conjure up. So, I was forced to do the conjuring myself by means of fire." She was arrogant by the way she spoke and tilted her head to bring about superiority Zerith knew was simply a ruse.

"And they did not stay their hand after you tried to speak to them?" The dragon-souled one found her courage enough to spit back a retort, narrowing her eyes at the elf who was sorely running out of time.  _ Could I actually take her when she killed all of them with barely a scratch on her? Gandalf could, but me, I would not stand a chance. _

A cold laugh ran chills down her spine. "They do not know how to stay their hand, pretty one, and besides," Touching the banner of Gondor, it erupted into flames and became nothing but specks of ash in the breeze, "I do not mind a fight that is weighed heavily in my favor."  _ Great, just what we need, an elf out for blood and plenty of it. _

"She lies, Gandalf! Why would they even come for her?" Panic made her voice rise in accusation as she watched the wizard who was always known for his composure.  _ Blasted man who always seems right as rain. The wisest and most caring man I have ever met, but I am waiting for him to do something and soon… _

A stern look from Gandalf kept the young woman's mouth shut.  _ This is for my sake, my sake…  _ By now, her mind was racing and her heart was beating with a fast fury.

"I know what you have come for, fated child of freedom," The elven woman's words dug into her brain and seemed like they were said to mock her. "You were a fool to come. You should have let Gandalf go alone, and you would have met a quick fate. Such a pity." Her mouth was turned upwards in a gruesome grin. "His presence is the only thing that has been protecting you from being corrupted by your dreams, but even  _ he  _ is not all-knowing and powerful. Such is to be expected." She turned away from them to watch the setting sun.

"I did not think you would know of me, but being a seeker of knowledge, I should have known better." Gandalf's voice was strained, covering the venom laced within. "You can give us information on her curse, though?"

"Curse!" The word was cackled and Zerith broke into a shivering fit. That word pierced her brain and heart just as the searing pain had when she had that dreadful dream. "She's blessed with power that should not be taken away. Even if it is used for evil, none can deny its greatness! However, we both have needs that the other can fulfill, so I will tell you what I know, and perhaps help beyond that if I deem the girl worthy enough of my trying." The crimson speckled into Uirien's head shown the sun's light in it as it dried.

"And that need of yours would be?"

Turning to face them, the seeker of knowledge tilted her head with a throaty chuckle. "I want to live and not see this world be tarnished, as so much I can reap from would be lost, and you want to help the girl control her gift. Simple, no?"  _ That simple? Surely there is a catch.  _ "You know of what is at stake. Her life and the lives of others hang in the balance, as well as the rise of dark forces, though their return is inevitable regardless of her. I have no doubt you have hidden her from others, but you cannot keep her locked up forever. To protect her from influence, I have found something rather interesting…" Ushering them to the opposite side of the hill from where they arrived, they noticed a small camp was pitched surrounded by some rocks at the foot of the slope. The fire was still roaring, casting a warm glow upon a tent and table covered with a strange array of items. Dozens and dozens of books stacked a safe distance from the fire, ores in orderly fashions lined up, bottles, elixirs, rare alchemical ingredients, and frantic scribbled notes on research materials. Her fear of this witch brought her to stay behind Gandalf in her apprehension.

"I hope this woman does not turn me into a toad…" She whispered under her breath, watching the old elleth scamper over to her ingredients, touching them with delicate fingers and saying something to herself all the while as she went over some of her writings in the process.

"Oh, no! I would never turn you into one of those foul beings! Then you would have no use…" When the cackling one's voice darkened, Zerith shook her head with a wide look of distraught. "You certainly do not know much about me..."

She cleared her throat nervously. "I have been left in the dark about most of this. I do not even know what's wrong with me, and I have been seeking the answers for years now."

Zerith jumped and Gandalf held out a protective arm when the elf spun around, madness in her wide, glaring eyes. "Let me spell it out for you,  _ princess. _ You know the dragon's inside you. In fact, I wonder if you had your own human soul to begin with, but never mind that. The more you become one with the Traitor, the greater your abilities are, but it leaves you prone to darkness invading you. We would not want you to lose your  _ purity. _ I can protect you from this darkness, but it comes with a price. You—"

"What if I do not want these abilities? I do not know what they are, and I have done fine without them. As long as I do not use them, I will be safe." Despite her wisdom that sometimes arose, the dark-haired shield-wielding lass was incredibly naïve, though it was not completely her fault. She just wanted clarity.

Gandalf could not move to the girl's aid fast enough as Uirien seized her hands in her own, their faces inches apart. The elf wore a look of disdain, the girl, desperation and anger mixed as a fruitless cocktail.

"If you want to remain true to yourself, you will have to use them. If you want to find all of those happy little emotions people of this land rely on to get by, you will need them. All of your fiery breath, your willpower, to save your pitiful life!" Uirien's rich voice spat in her face, felling her barriers and walls within herself.  _ I continue circling with all this hate and agony, and there's no room for anything else. Pity, for myself? Never. If this is what the Valar wanted, I must suffer, but I will still fight. _ "Fear can claim what little remains of you, so if you want to survive and not be a soulless ghoul, you will do what I say and keep that mouth of yours shut before I force it shut. I have a grimoire somewhere with a spell like that…"

_ You will not do anything? _ Gandalf stood, and her gut wrenched at his undying gaze and stillness.  _ You will not do anything. You cannot. We are both left in the dark.  _ "I-I will do anything to protect myself, but I would like to know more about the prophecy, and, well, everything, please. I am not some test subject for an experiment of yours, though." Gandalf was clearly clueless by bringing her to such a vile person, but he was preoccupied with travelling and he had learned little of her.

"It is simple. The Traitor was to be reborn—"

"Gostir's called the Traitor?"

"Yes, because he did not fall prey to greed and temptation like the rest of his kind. I thought I told you to keep quiet—"

"Forgive me!"

"Yes, well, the Traitor was to be reborn again at a time of darkening days. So, somehow you were chosen, and learned that you were different from mortal men. Now, speak, how did you learn and when?" The elf's grip tightened on her wrists as they never broke eye contact. Zerith could feel heat rise to her cheeks in embarrassment.

"Eleven winters of age, in a bout of fury I breathed flame." Her reply was shaky, frightened.  _ Try not to think what she ate, stay calm… _

"How you have managed to stay sane all this time is surprising, human. Now, from what I have read," she let Zerith go, turning to the fire reaching out to warm her hands and study its flickering, "anger is what would bring up a rampant soul buried so deep, but such emotion is not required the closer a soul is to its host, at least in your case. This means that you have two choices, to go into a dream-sleep, which would allow you to connect with Gostir as two individuals and have a better mastery and understanding of his hold on you, or you could not chance it, rather having to keep that foolish temper of yours under control unless you want to burn someone's face off accidently. Your choice, and who knows? You might be able to do more than speak fire, but that is off-putting on its own."  _ To turn my will to live into a weapon? Great, now I will make a hard choice that will cost me gravely either way.  _ In her desperation, she turned to Gandalf, eyes pleading for input.  _ Come on, I expected you to say more in all of this. _

"Getting comfortable with a dragon connected to Melkor is not recommended, but it very well might come to that in the end. I will let you choose, Zerith, but do so wisely. So much is at stake, and I cannot bear the thought of what might come of this evil." The wizard's eyes were soft, mouth drawn into a tight line.  _ He pities me, she feigns pity for me, and I feel nothing about my condition. What a trio we are. _

"The choice is clear, then. Tell me what I need to do for this 'dream-sleep' of yours." The choice was not clear, it was all a lie.  _ This has to be some cruel joke or dream, and I will wake up and laugh about everything.  _ It was not, and as Uirien silently beckoned her to lay comfortably in the camp's tent, she heard none of Gandalf's warnings to the elleth, their hushed arguing and the crackle of fire, nor of the crickets chirping in the night. As she lay in the warmth of crimson blankets, she stared up at the darkness of canvas imagining that it could be her silent companion, or perhaps it might give her some advice on her problems.  _ At least I have some peaceful minutes of alone time, now. I wonder what our favorite crazy witch is doing. _ Twiddling her thumbs, the sound of her steady breathing was the only thing she concentrated on.  _ There is nothing more I can do now. It is done. Hope stay with me, Gods… _

The night passed with little sleep from anyone, especially Zerith. Uirien spent the midnight hours researching and boiling up some concoction Zerith did not even want to think about. As she tossed and turned, she caught the faint whisperings of the elleth as she feverishly worked.

"Need to remember….have to work for…hate how he…."

It became a soft lull to her, and slowly the sounds receded into dreamless sleep under waning stars. Exhaustion had grown from seeds of anguish and fear, though she might have buried it deep within herself and concealed it from those whose eyes would wander. In such a short period of time, she had been ripped away from normalcy and peace of mind. Paranoia of becoming an abomination flooded her thoughts constantly, and she had always been kept up on Gandalf's trek to find Uirien. Habitually she would sit under the heavens to feel their serene glow as though it might be her last night of  _ feeling.  _ Emotions and thoughts to be lost, so easily? To be taken over by her own soul which made up every part of her being was unimaginable. She would not let herself become a monster. It would end by her hand if she lost her footing on the edge of her world.

-o-

A gray dragon in the sun, in the sky, always watching. A mirror image of a human girl marked disgrace for the serpentine creature. He longed to destroy every ounce of her, to make her bend her knee and submit, yet his brain flashed with uncertainty. It was not always like this, his corruption, his true bond to evil. There had been an age where he was a traitor to his own kind and his parental figures. When he saw mortal kind, Gostir saw strength that no force could ever take away. Melkor, the most powerful of his kind, though bound by chains still had influence upon his soul. Gostir doubted he was the last dragon, but he was living no longer. He was a fragment in time, a piece of history preserved eternally within a  _ woman. _ With this in mind, he imagined himself spreading discord among those who prowled Middle Earth. It would be so easy to have people in his claws, for innocence was life's greatest illusion, and a young woman could play that part well. She was no normal mortal, which he knew with all the truth of his blood, even without his soul living inside her, and he found himself pondering who she would have been without him. A warrior, no, she would give up on it because of the men's scorn without his fire to keep her feet dancing. A wife he could not see within her, not a normal one to take care of young ones all day and night. With him, she had not the patience or the temperament to submit to a man. Her scars did not help either, though she would have been revered as attractive by women's and men's standards. They were two ragged pink lines that brought out her stubborn wildness that made his nostrils puff with smoke. She was a wild little thing, and to have so much control over a canvas was a painter's dream. He would draw her up in blood and lies. Gostir's wings would forever darken the land with his permanent residence inside her.

Permanent was not a word that sounded well off to the dragon. He wanted his own body back, and in his greed he  _ would  _ have it. All he needed to do was serve his master and let Mordor cover man's land in black, and he would be able to comfortably lay on a bed of treasure and encrust himself in lavish frivolity. No matter his loyalties or feelings, he was a dragon, and few would come close to stopping him. There was the Necromancer to bind him with weakness, but no one else would stand in his way. Gostir was never one to let things pass peacefully.

He knew what Zerith was up to. The stirrings in his breast of swirling connections to the open world struck him breathlessly. No longer would he be resigned to a black infinite space of unlife. The girl would come for possession, and he would finally be able to reclaim his lost mountain-throne on one of the highest ridges of Ered Lithui. He could have freedom again, freedom from a master he never truly wanted to serve, and a mortal was not to be stopping him.

-o-

The pieces were in place. No more preparation for the dream-sleep, a confrontation with Gostir which would be weaponless. It had always been a choice without choices for Zerith, and as dawn peaked, the deathly cold dread filled her breath. It might be the last time she would ever see with her own eyes, and she made sure to take in everything. The green rolling hills that marked the landscape, the pointy slope of Gandalf's hat, his smile that reached warm eyes, the unusual look from Uirien bearing uncertain feelings, and the feeling of dew on her fingers. She would return changed, or she would not return at all. Zerith or Gostir would return. The odds she had mentally calculated were not in her favor.

"I am ready." With bated breath, Zerith's words rang strong and clear of wavering. "What must I do?" Clear to the point, concisely drawn. She put up her last walls her strength could hold, but her hammering heart was a battering ram.

Uirien brought a pot of steaming  _ something  _ over along with a cup, and the girl, elleth, and Istari wizard placed themselves before a crackling fire. On leaning over to look at the crock's contents, Zerith had noticed two things: one, that it was some sort of deep red tea, and two, that it was very strong and reminded her of cool, colorful autumn days laying in piles of fallen leaves.  _ Gross, most likely. Witch's brews always have some sort of funk about them. _

Uirien smiled widely, a glint in her eye that caused Zerith to shiver.  _ Why is Gandalf letting me do this?  _ "The soul you will be meeting is strong and bitter. Tea is strong and bitter. Do you see how such simple things can overwhelm you? Yes, a cupful of the mixture will do for you, I think…"  _ Great, rambling on and on. Just what I need to get this over with. _

Zerith filled the cup with steaming sanguine tea, blowing on it as she tried to calm her nerves. "What will I encounter in this dream-sleep?" She broached, mind racing with flashing vision.  _ Stay calm, stay calm. Be strong, strong… _

Sternness made Uirien sit up tightly straight, giving a glare as she spoke. "You will not be yourself. Gostir will not be inside you, it will be as though you were meeting him when he were still alive long ago. Since this will be so, you will not have the same personality. He has much more influence on your every state than you know, and more than can easily be overcome. He will tempt you, give you offers, or try to weaken you in numerous ways. Do not let him. Do not tell him your name, either. Such personal things that we might share with one another commonly is too much to give to him. Your goal while in a dream-sleep is to outmaneuver your opponent. Whatever the dragon's main feeling or wish is could mean your freedom."

"My freedom? There cannot be myself without him. Such intimacy shared between souls is a bond that cannot be broken. Crush him to embers, and he will reignite into me. Perhaps this is his nature, a nature of evil that cannot be ripped from a dragon, and I am a fool to give him a chance of redemption. He was no normal dragon, but he could be now. I am not so ignorant to deny the facts which make up my lifeblood. If there is no way to reach his heart, which was never black like his kind, then I will set in place my self-destruction." It was a speech that came out of the black-haired young lady's mouth though she did not consider it to have much meaning. In an instant of signing away her life to whatever god might listen to her, she drank the rich liquid, relishing in its taste, and she plunged herself into the abyss.


	4. Puppet Master

**Chapter Four: Puppet Master**

_ Gone.  _ From behind her eyelids, Zerith's world soared by in a myriad of colors. She was plunged into an emptiness that left pain stabbing at her breast and pounding her head with the hammer of the world of the restless. Drowning, drowning now, Zerith sank into a black darkness with crashing waves over her head. There could not be any air that would come to relieve her lungs. To scream for help was fruitless; she was in the depths of her mind where her soul flew free from her. The Valar were the only ones she could call to for help as she lost control of breath and hope.  _ The witch would not dare to poison me, would she? _

Though she did not trust Uirien, she doubted she had the stones to try to kill her.  _ Well, who knows? My fate will come or it will not. _ While wasting time pondering the idea, her lungs burned with a fury and no amount of frantic swimming produced results. Her hand shot up and felt the coolness of air upon it, and as she prepared to let herself sink to unknown depths, she found that the suffocation of waters enveloping her had disappeared. The hand had been taken, and air from above hit her face wildly. Her eyes saw nothing but darkness, yet Zerith had the realization that she was  _ flying. _

To where, who could say? She let whoever—or whatever—carry her through the darkness of the place her soul dwelled. Her short flight quickly over, she was left falling somewhere, and she begged the gods for sight so that she might not go mad in this place.  _ Remember what Gandalf and the witch said. _ The resolute words were ones she would repeat to the ends of her days.

With a cry of pain, ground appeared before her eyes and she met it head on. Any strength had left her body, and she had never felt so weak. It was as if someone had drained any fortitude and spirit from her.  _ I will not give it up so easily to whatever ails me. I have many fights left to go. _ How she had not broken anything, Zerith could not even hope to guess. Gazing up to where the sky was replaced with darkness, a shadow of a figure loomed over her and left chills down her spine. The icy pierce of fear struck her, and she stood with a grimace. She did not need to catch a glimpse of the scaly beast to know it was he. Mustering any reserve, she would fight the unseen menace.

" _ Gostir!"  _ She called with a snap, eyes widening at how lifeless and drained her voice was.  _ Already, my strength wanes, and I am to face him? Folly.  _ Still, the dragon was nowhere to be seen, though she felt his presence. "Speak, or prove your cowardice!" _ Am I really challenging a dragon? _

A sickening laugh rose in the air, and Zerith stumbled at its might. "Y-you take amusement at me? Come then, for I will provide much more!" Her words were emotionless and gray, but they were persuasive enough, for in swift motion, he appeared in front of her with a thud and gust of air that tousled her hair.

Here, in the place of privacy Zerith could not be blessed with, lived an enigmatic figure. He was the raging fire within her call, and the ice in her voice. The cooling rain of her tears, and the renewing life of rest and relaxation. He and she were one in the same. She gave him air to fill his needy lungs and views of the world he longed to venture with his own form, and in return, he was her emotion and her power. Power came with a price that she would have to pay and he would take everything she could give. Just life, her life, and then the chains that bound him to the consequences of living so close to his master's best lieutenant would be broken. History would tell that every bind would break, for the coming of Dagor Dagorath. The world will be unmade, and the girl would be unmade for Gostir's freedom. He drew parallels that left him feeling guilty, but cast out were the feelings of care and devotion to anyone but himself. Once, he had wished to aid Men. Once, he was a fool. He could only come to care for his being, and the reaching grasp he labored to recall memories of good in him were too fatiguing to bear their weight any longer.

He stood before her, the mighty beast, and she observed two dragons. The first, a tarnished, old weary serpent who was crushed by evil and nature. The second, the more palpable evil being who dared to plague her mind with faint whispers of corruption that would grow to drown out her human life. Narrow dark gray spikes made up his armor, and his speckled scales shone dully as though he were sick or had his life essence taken from him. His eyes were voidless red slits that spoke of wisdom and dominance. Such was the way of dragons, she noted to herself as she stared up at him. He was larger than many homes combined and Zerith could not fathom his span. She was drawn to him as much as she drew back, for they had a striking resemblance to each other. The same looks were worn upon their weary faces. No tales that she ever had read about him could truly tell of his life and fight, and she bowed before him, overcome with an oppressive feeling of honor. Her wit failed her, as honor and Melkor would not mix.

"You have tongue though I have left you," He rumbled, still as a statue, words echoing off the confines of her instincts. "Feeling weak, fresh meat? Emotionless?  _ Wraith-like? _ " Her ears hurt with the volume and depth of his chortle. "It is just as well. You have been thrown into a place where weapons are nothing. I am afraid to tell you that there is no going home from here. Throw away your life, your love, your dreams and wishes and hopes! You are lost, now, as am I. It is true that the witch has not been truthful or trustworthy. Few would help a monster, but she is not few. She works for the rewards given by my master, and she knew how valuable you were. The ending days are coming, fresh meat, and we are bound to work for the wrong side. Ah," He sighed, blowing a gust of steam and smoke upon her, "fate is cruel. But is this fate, or destiny? I am destined to do bad for it is in my nature. Your destiny is not known by me, for the races of Middle Earth are so picky. Can we call this fate, though?" He watched unblinking as she struggled to find words to reply.

"I am not knowledgeable. I know little of what I was born to be, or who you are or who I am. I ask for you to tell me."  _ Beg of him nothing, for he will use you. Demand of him nothing, for he will eat you. Stay calm, Zerith.  _ She repeated simple words to herself, voicelessly, to calm fear and keep her wits.

She thought she saw him grin, though it was gone in a blink. His breath rang in her ears as he began a long telling of history. "I will honor your  _ request, _ fresh meat, for I doubt you are useful while ignorant. In the days of my waking, I flew above the Northern Wastes. The Withered Heath intrigued me little, and it was only a visage to my waking eyes as I flew above white. Instead, I preferred to observe Men. Virtue and vice embodied them, and they were true mortals of the land. The epitome of the balance of life. I sensed darkness approaching on the horizon, when they would fall and be consumed in the wind and their own deficits, and I went to them. 'Heed my words.' Said I, 'You must prepare for war. I know not what comes, but your livelihood will pass into shadow and you will be decimated.' Few accepted my speech for truth, but a small number took a leap, a chance. One was a young woman with ebony in her hair and the icy sea in her eye. I beckoned her and her kind to join me, to learn as dragons do, to use their voices as fiery flames and forceful gusts. She believed everything I said, every ounce of wisdom I could pass on was a bout of giddiness in her heart. Then, it was I who fell into shadow. I flew past where my brethren were born, and to the Ash Mountains. I had only come to learn of what would dare to harm the people who had disregarded my warnings, but I left, becoming the thing I had ached to protect them from. Somehow, they sensed that I had taken a foul air to me, and met me west of the Iron Hills, close to my brethren. I had not the heart to fight them as they tore into me. The last of them who had come to fight was the woman. She was pale and weak, eyes lost in tears of betrayal. I saw in her that my teachings had become corrupted, just as I had, and she struck the final blow to me and died, overcome with inner turmoil and grief. For a while, her soul plagued me with feelings of regret at the silence I had often succumbed to in order to hide my feelings towards her. Then, she became a girl from the city of the White Tree who longed for stars to guide her way, and I was her guiding light. Still, without my own body, I could not fight my corruption, and I focused my time serving my master. Now, she stands before me still, and I must serve him even so. My teeth to his neck." Gostir spat in anger.

A recounting of history left her wishing he had been silent. She was unmade, to think that she had once been someone far in history who she had never heard of. It could not be, she hoped. "Let me understand this. I am supposedly the reincarnation of the girl who once was your apprentice, the one who slew you? Why did you tell me of all of this?" Her heart hammered and she felt faint. Stars danced in front of her eyes and Gostir was clouded in shade.

"What makes you think you will be leaving this place?" The gray dragon asked, tilting his head with a puff of smoke. "I have tried for years."

"But you are controlled by your master and do not have a physical form. I have no Dark Lord hanging over my head, and I have walked Middle Earth."

"Foolish girl," He growled in a sudden outburst. She thought that he might gobble her up, as his snout was inches from hers. "If I am controlled, then you cannot escape it. Your physical form only exists because I allow it to." 

"Why, though? Why are we connected? Why could the dead not remain so?" Her voice strained to not quiver.

"The Valar have a strange sense of humor, perhaps. Maybe we are not done in our workings of the world. In the past life, I was thunder upon the high, and a teacher. In the past life, the woman was a rebel, a fighter, and a guide. Though it is certain I could have had more rippling results if I had done what she had, my work would be lost. Who trusts dragons? Fools. Gullible men. Who trusts women? Many more souls. Through her my voice sounded, my fire burned, and my scales protected."

"You mean to say that our relationship is similar?"

"No," He rumbled, warm breath upon her face, "they are the same. You will use your hands to create and destroy, and I can give you the power to do so." With these words, she felt the tide shift. In a shiver, she felt a pull to him and felt the need to give in. This weakness, and the desire to accept and follow him, was echoed in history, though she could not remember where.

"The girl's name." Zerith stuttered, backing away quickly. "What was it? What is our connection?" Her change of subject brought the dragon to growl impatiently, though his eyes were emotionless.

"Her own people called her Satherra. You are one and the same. She was of noble blood, oldest daughter of the leader of those who lived too close to dragons and preferred their hearts to be as cold as ice."

"The Lossoth?" She had heard that there were few people living up to the north in the Third Age, but she was sure of one, whom Gandalf had spoken of.

"No, though they quarreled with each other. The people who slew me and some of my lesser, minute brethren were known as the Tarakona. Proud and stubborn were they, to forget my words and succumb to what I had warned them of. They were known to be renowned dragonslayers though they were not overly strong that they could exterminate many of my brethren. I believe their highest populations reside between the Mountains of Angmar and the Gray Mountains, though a few still remain west of the Iron Hills, where I died. It was there that the prophecy was struck into the very earth, to remain even as grass grew and sand shifted." Gostir rolled his neck, looking to where the moon and sun would pass if the sky were there, and the silence grew uneasy.

"You remember many things." Zerith murmured. "What does the prophecy say?"

The dragon whipped his tail around to barely miss her head. Zerith ducked, and reached for weapons, but just as she had felt the molded leather grip of her sword sheathed in her belt, it crumbled to dust at her feet, along with her shield.  _ I should have brought a dagger. _ She was left defenseless, and she doubted her leather cuirass would save her from anything. At her reaction, Gostir laughed with a great blue breath that chilled the air. He turned to face her again in an instant, and continued to guffaw as he stared down. "I play with you, fresh meat. Your face is priceless. To answer your question, I do not know what the prophecy says. I was hoping you would know for yourself, since it would be most useful."

"How can I find out? You say that I will never leave this place. I am trapped here." The young woman sighed with a trembling lip. Her heart ached for the life she would never see again.

"You cannot leave without me. I am your soul, and without it, you would be but a warm body, simply existing. However, if you allow yourself to accept my hold on you, you may go back and forth from this realm of spirits and the physical world. I can give you many gifts." It was tempting, but Zerith knew she needed to remember how dangerous the dragon could be. Without him, she was nothing, but with him, she could be everything the world did not need.

"Just tell me what you can provide for me. Explain this talk of 'gifts'." Her impatience irritated him, as he blew smoke from his spiked nostrils in her face and put her into a bout of a coughing splutter, but he would oblige her.

"In time, as we get stronger together, you will take my voice for your own, and speak in flame and frost, as well as other tongues of dragon-kind. Your ancestor gives you willpower, resilience, and strength. Perhaps one day you will fly with wings of your own."  _ Suspicious albeit interesting bait dangling on a hook before me. _

"How does my ancestor give me such things? I thought Satherra had died along with you. You cannot imply that she had children…"

"No, she was a free spirit who preferred to be alone and without family. She was captivated by someone, but her feelings, as she told me, were surely unrequited. When we both perished, her spirit moved on to the place of peace the Tarakona believed in, but I was forced to pace in a restless limbo. Something had interfered with my passing, and my soul was trapped until the day of divine interference. Now, I live in you, and Satherra guides your steps and every motion."

"Is there a catch to you offering me such power?" Zerith questioned, gritting her teeth and crossing her arms as she watched the brute stretch his wings.

"A catch? There is always a catch. Catch it if you can!" The dragon roared with laughter, quickly dying off. "Yes, there is. When you return to your world, you must take up Satherra's name in her honor, learn of the prophecy, and find a shard of my egg in the Withered Heath. This is only the beginning, I feel."

"Am I right in assuming I need to find someone of the Tarakona to find the prophecy-stone? And your egg? You want me to find some shard that lies in a large, barren valley that may or may not be inhabited by lesser dragons?"

"As I said," Gostir rumbled, "this is only the beginning. Pack warm clothing, weapons, and plenty of food, and you will survive. You mortals make everything so complicated."

"Do you jest? I am not a one-woman army. You are asking for me to travel across half of Middle Earth, through many perils, just for a stone and an egg shard?"

Gostir chortled at Zerith's frustrations. "Perhaps you ask for a taste of power? I shall teach you to breathe flame as I do. You have experience in doing so, but it has only been accidental."

"Breathe fire? You are a cold drake, and yet you claim to spit flame and bear wings? What has turned you to be so?"

"Time and brooding, fresh meat, time and brooding." He let out a narrow burst of flame into the air. "In my time waiting for whatever fate would claim me in this land of souls, I changed. And my creators have given me many a gift for my tenacity.  Life is mysterious. Now, silence yourself, and I will teach you what I know so that you may use it anytime." He produced a pleased look when he saw the singular attention given to him reflected in her eyes. "You are only able to call upon my traits if you have an open connection to your soul. Tell me of the time you first spoke fire."

It pained her to remember the endless days running throughout Minas Tirith. She could only see her mother's curly, bouncing hair, the way her nimble fingers made plaits so easily and toiled away day by day to provide a home for her only child. When the fall came and her father went off to protect the city, and the coldest sting of her mother's worst fear coming with a late night knock on their door. With winter came silent scorn from mother dearest, and fire brought abandonment. Zerith had tried her hardest to forget the longing that came when she thought of her old life.

"A knock upon my door from abusive and hateful people that normally would have brought sorrow and self-hate only brought burning rage. I felt a great pressure building like the swell of a flood, and when I opened my mouth to reply to their spiteful words, out came a burst of flame that sent them running. I will never forget the way my mother mentioned your name, or the sting of tears upon her banishing me." Zerith's words were steady and slow, swallowing down the bitterness of memories aching in her heart.

"You have learned that anger and fury causes flame. For every element of the world, there is a corresponding emotion. Few dragons know anything else than flame, but those who do have deep roots in the earth. I gift my knowledge of fire's workings to you, as I had to Satherra, long ago." With his exhale, a warm glow emanated in the space between his collarbone and heart, and a flow of energy was transferred from him to her. The great pull Zerith felt fluttered her hair, and she felt as though embers smoldered inside where she saw the dragon glow. When Gostir spoke further, he sounded exasperated. "We are connected, you and I, until your death."

"You wish me dead, then. It would give you freedom."

"I do not want that. My master wants my freedom. Even if you were gone, I would not be free. His gaze would forever loom over me. Here, when we may speak in the depth of your mind, is the only place where his sight does not scan." He dipped his head and rested it upon the ground, closing his eyes and giving a look of deep contemplation. The only sound that echoed was his rumbly breathing.

"You want me to honor you. Take up your apprentice's name, find a prophecy, and your egg shard. What a typical arrogant dragon." Zerith snorted, dropping to her knees to sit in front of him. "You know, you did not need to help me at all. You could have just used the dragon-spell." She thought that he might have been asleep, for he did not reply to her for a long while.

"It would be of no use to me to control you. You must be you, plain and simple, and not me. You must not forget who you are, and who you remind me of."

"You were very close, then."

"Satherra was unique. Not like most mortalkind. I do not know what she saw in me. Dragons are very well-versed and persuasive, but none of the Tarakona believed in my words, save for her. The others who followed me were only those devoted to her, and even they disbanded. It was always her, and something more. Alas, the past is not worth remembering for it changes little now…" He made her attempt to seek out grief in his utterances, but there was nothing. It was the monotony that weighed him down. "Enough. You have exhausted my weakness for speech long enough. Do as I have said and do not dally."

"How long do I have?" She inquired softly, rising to a stand as he did so.

"Theoretically, forever. Your body will not succumb to the Gift of Men so long as I remain in you. Do not forsake that, though, and remember that danger comes with procrastination. I can predict your next words, fresh meat. 'How will we meet again? Must I come across the witch who boils me up poisoned bubbly to lure my body into a dream state?' You will come to me in dreams if I allow it. It is the safest way of communication without invading your consciousness." He craned his neck to great heights, and stiffened his posture. "Now, begone thee—"

"Wait!" She shouted at his dismissal. "You have given me the ability to use fire breath when I need it, but I do not know how to actually produce it."

The scaled one raised his head up in a roaring laugh before coming down to look at her with thin crimson eyes. "A test run before a real fight. I will indulge you. When teaching men how to fight, experienced warriors talk much about posture. It is just the same. Raise your chest, stretch your neck, mouth widened, and feel the simmering of the flame inside of your bosom." She did as he said, taking a deep breath in and releasing it slowly. Something boiled and twisted in her heart and with his every word she felt a pulsing pressure. "Emotion is key, fresh meat. Imagine the heat and rage of battle, the quickness of your stride and the ungraceful slow slosh of your enemies. They insult you by thinking they can best you in battle. You wish the battle to be over quickly, and the fire needs to be let loose; its purpose being to consume and destroy. Yet fire is so much more than what mortals make it to be. It gives life. Relax the fury in you that it arouses, and feel the heat of a campfire beneath your fingers."

"Starting small, are we?"

"Quit your chirping, woman. The sting of winter freezes your skin, and fire is your savior. Call upon it. It is gentle, for a little is enough to change everything."

Eyes shut, face restful, Zerith took a shallow breath in, savoring the heat rising up in her throat, and let it out, slowly. The dance of flame flickered beneath her eyelids and restored the life in her cheeks. When she allowed herself a flutter of the heart to see again, her breath was a narrow flicker of flame. Just enough, as Gostir said, to change everything.

"Not bad, fresh meat. Since you seem to act like it comes easy to you, use your full power. Test your might.  _ Burn  _ me, if you have the gut for it!"

The girl and the dragon were connected in a blaze with her silent scream that commanded the air.

-o-

The daze of a thousand year sleep sat on her chest, and Zerith found it difficult to open her eyes or move. She heard nothing and could not seem to remember where she was, but the silence alarmed her, and she struggled to awaken herself. The world swam in monochromatic blurs and air left her lungs for a split second before everything raced back.

In an instant, her eyes shot open, and was disappointed to see that she was still viewing up, she felt rough canvas beneath her fingertips.  _ The tent.  _ Zerith realized that she had been lying in Uirien's camp, left in the same place as she had been before. Her heart beat too slowly at a drowsy resting state, and she hurried out of the tent sluggishly. Outside, the wind's crying call was the only thing to pierce the hillside air, and she was left alone. A call for her previous two companions would only be foolhardy. As she tried to stand, her vision blackened, and she was quick to sit cross-legged before the long-cold fire. She ran her hands through where she begged embers to lay, but she felt only the silky smoothness of ash and soot and coolness. They had left her a while ago, and it did not seem as though they would be back soon, for as she looked around the odd camp, she saw that many things had been taken and few left behind. Zerith's shield had disappeared, and she was left with only the sword at her belt, sending a silent prayer to the Valar that its disintegration had not been permanent. It was strange for Uirien and Gandalf to have taken off so quickly, especially in her unconscious state, and she grew bitter with anger at the witch who had most certainly tricked both Gandalf and her. It was not wise to trust her so easily, but she had followed Gandalf to the letter. Even so, he was gone, and the thought brewed worry.  _ If that elleth has done anything to him, she will meet my flame… _

Zerith took ten minutes to recover from her fatigue, and began to search the camp for useful information and supplies. The wind was picking up with biting cold and stars made their descent upon her. She would not stand to stay here for long, as it was too exposed and she did not know who prowled the hills at night. Still feeling weak, she was quick to gather up as many books, tools, and food as she could, piling them into spare bags and tying her cloak tightly around her body. She left only a small golden leaf pin Gandalf once gifted to her as a symbol that she had come and gone.

-o-

Zerith stood by the windowsill of her room back at her cottage, watching fluffy flakes of snow drift in the outside air. It had been two months since receiving her task, and the day had finally come when her life would end, and another would begin. Eighteen years ago she had been born of human body and dragon soul, and she had come so far to have gained nothing.  _ Is this what elves feel?  _ She asked herself, touching her twin scars subconsciously.  _ Winter has come with a grim conclusion. I must face my battles alone. No more will a Maiar hold my hand and guide me through every hardship. He has gone away, perhaps left me, and I am alone. I must learn of my own destiny to shape my fate, and that of others. Yet I am alone in this cold and I feel no hope or determination. Solitude has aged me beyond my years. I must take the name of Satherra and let go of Zerith, though not forget her. She was a carefree, lively young one who knew no fear or pain. With the sun rose her happiness, and with the moon calmed her spirit. Now, I am chained to a life I did not choose, and I am alone. It is bittersweet to start anew.  _ Zerith was one to brood on things too much, and as she turned away from the bright white of winter, she stared down at her travelling gear, running her hands on the metal of her twin blades, a shortsword and dagger, which she sheathed in leather straps upon her back. She had enough dried food to last her half of the way to Edoras strapped to a horse she had bought in Bree. Doubting she would go through all of it, she still reminded herself that she had practiced enough to turn her measly skill with a bow into a somewhat decent tool that she was able to take down some wildlife. With profits she had made from selling leather and other goods she had gathered, she had enough coin to make the journey and back from wherever it might lead. She was glad to have bought a bay horse from Bree when she did, for traversing was starting to get difficult as seasons changed. Gostir had named the stallion Applegrabber after his knack for mischief and trouble, and the name stuck. He stood under a makeshift shed under a large, evergreen fir tree, calmly swishing his tail and blinking at the white flakes that caught in his eyelashes. Applegrabber was a loyal friend, and she was comforted to have him by her side. Still, her worry did not wane. At the idea of leaving her true home for a long, unknown period of time, she was very uneasy and was dissuaded from taking the trip. To throw away her old life was difficult, but she would not let anything hold her back any longer. "It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly," Zerith whispered in the silence of her solitude and the whipping wind outside.

Zerith could not help smoothing the leather armor of her tunic, gloves, armguards, and greaves, feeling the smooth metal pauldrons that glinted beneath her thick fur cloak. She knew that she would be getting into her first real battles, and without companions, she had not much confidence, but her soul would give her warmth, and he would always be inside of her. She would be bundled up under the day's sun and he would radiate within her, guiding her lonely way. She was a lone wanderer, though she certainly was not lost, just nervous.  _ The future is uncertain, but I can shape it.  _ Before she would trudge through the snow, she took the time to hover over a map of Middle Earth.  _ This trip will take me  _ forever.  _ I dread making the effort, lazy me.  _ She would go to Bree and follow The Green way south from there, past the Gap of Rohan and to Edoras. Then, she would make her way north past Fangorn Forest and Lorien and cut through Mirkwood on the Old Forest Road. She would look upon the Lonely Mountain and Esgorath, and after a stop at the rebuilt town, it was a straight northeast. Zerith had no exact location of the Tarakona, but she prayed that she would find them soon.  _ Truly, it will take a very long time, though I have infinite time, theoretically, as said by Gostir. What a strange beast. _

Outside, the sky was a pale cloudless blue, and she squinted her eyes, taking some coal from remnants of a fire and putting it below and roughly around her eyes to shield herself from the light. It was slow going in the rough wind, but her spirits perked at Applegrabber's nuzzle into her shoulder in greeting. She quickly strapped bags to his saddle, making sure he was well-fed and rested. Prior to letting her heart bear the fleeting sorrow at leaving her home behind, she offered it one last look before mounting her horse and leaving everything, including the majority of her true self behind. A life had been unmade; Satherra was reborn.


	5. Friend or Foe

**Chapter Five: Friend or Foe**

To leave home behind was one of the hardest things Zerith had done. Never once had she looked back from atop Applegrabber, but her heart ached with homesickness already.  _ Just think of how I will be in a few weeks when I am much farther away!  _ She had finally been able to let go and forget her sadness once she crossed the Last Bridge onto the East road, where her heart beat quickly at the sight of Weathertop, a haunting beacon of glowing fog beneath the moon in the black night. These hills that surrounded her were too open, and the canter of her horse made her nervous at the sound of his hooves breaking the silence. Being alone was not comforting in the slightest, though the warmth of her loyal steed consoled her in her darkest hours. In all the months she had wasted in a state of indecisiveness about making her first large journey alone, she had not seen Gandalf nor received anything related to him. While she knew he was not dead, it had pained her to think that he had simply vanished without a word to her after their ordeal together. The witch Uirien was the thing of the past, and so was Gandalf, for the time being.  _ From this moment on, you will go alone,  _ she told herself, keeping an ever vigilant eye on the road. So far she had managed to remain unseen by man or beast, and she prayed the shot to Bree would remain that way.

Zerith could make out the South Downs, and she painted a picture of the time of her dream-sleep. That was truly the day her life had made a complete flip; from girl to woman she transitioned, never being able to grasp the other's hand for a moment of recollection. She imagined the snow as a thin blanket upon sparse grass that had sprouted from the ashes of just months ago. Death was replaced by life was replaced by grim expectation of the cold hold of snow. It was surely a sudden thing for a wintertime to come in a place that did not see too much of it. The woman would not complain, as the cold never bothered her anyway.

The hair on the back of her neck rose and chills ran down her spine as Zerith had an odd feeling of being watched. She slowed Applegrabber to a halt to survey the area, taking in her surroundings with sharp eyes. She would soon reach Weathertop, and though the place gave her the creeps as equally as everywhere around her did right at the moment, she decided it might be best to rest there and go to Bree in the morning. Something did not seem right. It was surely a foolish move to rest at Weathertop, but she always regarded herself as such. Turning her course to the hill, she kept a stealthy pace as she approached.

-o-

Crackling of a small fire brought the color back to Zerith's cheeks as she sat among the old ruins nibbling on bread and fish jerky. Nothing could be heard save for the fire and the soft movements of Applegrabber's hooves as he feasted on hay. In a moment of quiet contemplation, Zerith went over the path she had chosen to take to travel east.  _ The Old Forest Road is too dangerous and uncertain. I should not pass by Dol Guldur, and I cannot take the Forest River. That would lead me too far into the King of Mirkwood's lands. Valar, I wish Gandalf were here. Such a wise wizard. He has travelled all over Middle Earth, so he would surely know the easiest way. He could get me into Rivendell, but without an elf-friend, I cannot pass through there easily. I may know Sindarin, but I am not as glib as Gandalf is.  _ Zerith gazed up at where the new moon was supposed to be, watching the glimmering of the stars pass through black, wispy clouds. Standing to stretch, she climbed an old yet sturdy pillar of stone to watch the road she had just travelled on. The wind made her pull her fur cloak tighter to keep the warmth in. There was another traveler on the road by horseback, for a furious gallop cut through the night. She observed the stranger and her heart leapt a beat when he stopped, got off of his mount, and examined the tracks of Applegrabber when they had turned to stay at Weathertop. Before the stranger could look up, she quickly leapt off the pillar, grabbing her bow and quiver that lay with the rest of her gear. Zerith made sure her sword and dagger were within reach, and she returned to her lookout on the pillartop to hide within its shadow, observing the person that stood close to their horse.  _ Who is this, a friend or foe?  _ After what seemed like forever, they mounted and turned to the hills. The woman felt as though they had seen her, but she let out a breath of relief she did not know she was holding once she lost sight of them. Though she was safe, it was time to go. She turned tail and packed what little she had taken out of her bags and the saddlebags. Applegrabber raised his head curiously, flicking his ears at her scuffling. After she put out her small fire and gave the ruins a once-over, she prepared her horse for the short journey to Bree. He huffed with a warm sigh upon her neck, and she smiled sadly at his displeasure.

"You will be able to have a good rest soon, and then, a long journey! Do not worry, my friend." She patted his side and he whinnied in response.

As Zerith and her companion made their journey down Amun Sul, she did not take notice of a silhouette approaching the South Downs.

-o-

The long journey ahead of Zerith started out to be an interesting once. After getting into Bree with some hassle from the gatekeeper about 'the darned time of night to be making a ruckus' she laid her eyes on the Prancing Pony. She would have argued that the sun was coming up, but he hurried her and her horse in before she could reply. She was not surprised to see few people up in the early morn but cared little save for the stables and the Prancing Pony. Making sure to keep her hood up at all times, she approached the stables slowly, barely noticing a small figure approaching her quickly.

"Ah," The little one started in a high, happy voice, "A fine horse you have there, ma'am! If you plan to stay at the inn, I will take your horse. The name's Bob."

Upon first glance, Zerith was surprised to hear such a mature voice for a child. However, she flushed in silent embarrassment as she realized he was a hobbit. She had never actually seen one in real life, so it gave her pause. Quickly recovering her senses, she smiled down upon him.

"That would be great, master hobbit." She passed the reins to him, and even Applegrabber was confused at the little man. He flared his nostrils and shuffled his hooves, never lifting his gaze from Bob. "Shall I pay the innkeeper for both your services and his?"

He nodded, scratching the back of his neck. His curly ginger hair glinted in the early morning light, and his hairy feet were caked in dirt and mud of Bree. "Yep. Barliman Butterbur will help you out. Be careful, though, as he has a terrible memory." With that, he turned away to the stables with Applegrabber trailing behind, hesitant to leave his master. Zerith's lips turned upwards slightly in a grin as she observed her horse hovering over the hobbit's hair to nibble on it. The loud closing of a door from across the road brought her out of her trance, and she quickly darted to the inn's door, not wanting to make her presence known to many. She had gotten enough strange looks already for one lifetime.

-o-

Warm air rushed to her face immediately, a strong contrast to the cold air of dawn lingering outside. Zerith took in her surroundings; the square-shaped bar where the innkeeper Barliman feverishly tended to men who guzzled down mead a-plenty. She stood before the bar, keeping her face concealed under the shadow of her hood and her black hair. After a while, the hubbub slowed its pace, and she gave Butterbur a loud whistle. Shifting her weight, she watched him scuttle over with a twitch of his mustache. He inhaled deeply, as though he was preparing for a long speech.

"Ah! Hello lass. Welcome to the Prancing Pony. You will find no finer rooms, warmer fire, or stronger drink! I have never seen you before here, girl, but I am always glad to see new customers coming through! In fact, I have not seen a new face since…" She tuned his prattle out for a while, letting him go on and encouraging him with distracted nods.  _ This man is chatting my ear off.  _ While pretending to pay attention, she examined the other patrons on the other side of the bar. Most were men, though she saw hobbits scurrying about. Luckily the atmosphere was too warm and boisterous for anyone to notice her presence, save for one. As she scanned the crowd, she locked gazes with one man for a split second and chills ran down her spine, though she could not understand why. Something was definitely not right with him, and she would make sure to keep a watchful eye. He sat in the shadows where the lanterns' light did not reach so she could barely make out his features and could not bear to look at him for long, but what she saw was sharp and menacing, unfamiliar even. Her focus was diverted when Barliman finally ended. "Now, what can I do for you?"

Shaking off the startle in her voice, she smiled softly to seem friendly. "While your beds and nourishment sounds wonderful and I would much like to partake in them, I must first ask a question. Do you know of a grey wizard named Gandalf?"

The innkeeper stared blankly in thought at her. "Gandalf….Gandalf. I have not seen him in years, if my memory serves me right."

Zerith's disappointment was evident on her face, and her smile faded a bit. She would have pursued the information further had the gaze of the man she did not like pierced her. With a stutter, she made to hurry the innkeeper up. "Ah, that is all right. Thank you. I would like a room for the night and food and drink. I will also gladly pay you since one of your workers, Bob, stabled my horse."

After counting her coins with zeal, Butterbur went into another long ramble, showing her to her room and then seating her at one of the empty tables in the great room. She noticed it was the only one not occupied, and as she was presented a gracious meal of fruit and bread with a large pitcher of water, she felt eyes on her, everywhere. She must have looked a bit strange since she had not yet changed out of her armor and weapons, cloak still concealing her from most unfriendly eyes, but a woman travelling was not so suspicious was it? She could be waved off as a Ranger, and many people around her were too drunk to care. That did not stop some from gaping at her body for longer than she felt comfortable. Already, she felt uneasy on her journey. First it was the road, the mysterious stranger at Weathertop, and now the inn, and that scary-looking man. She wished Gandalf were here, and wiped at the soft moisture that gathered in her eyes. Zerith scolded herself internally for being so weak as to build up tears. She was a woman now, not a girl, and she was on her own.

Gulping down her water gratefully, she listened to the general conversation of the inn. Some chatter amused her because of the drunken slur, and others intrigued her coming from others more sober. Despite the warmth of comforting food and drink, Zerith was still uneasy at the man's intense stare. He ate and drank nothing, only crossed his arms and watched her. Boldly, she held his glare for half a minute before he was the one to become uncomfortable. He looked away, turning to a man next to him and whispering something. Finally, after being relieved of the chills down her spine, Zerith made for her room. It was a decent size, with a fluffy single bed in the corner, a writing desk and a wardrobe, and a bathtub in an alcove. She ran her hands over the smooth wooden walls and eyed the beautiful tapestries. Out of exhaustion, she collapsed onto the bed on her back, staring up at the ceiling before relinquishing her weapons, bags, armor, and cloak. She had not even noticed that someone drew her a bath, and her muscles relaxed as soon as she plunged into its clear depths. There was something always refreshing about scrubbing the dirt, grime, and blood of the road off of you after a long travel. Zerith lingered long in the waters until it became too cold, and then she dressed in a dress, leggings, and her leather boots, strapping her leather harness for her shortsword and dagger to her back, and tying her fur cloak tightly. She ran her fingers through waist-length wet hair and weaved it into a complex braid that would stay for a while. Making sure her room was secure and safe, she passed quietly out the door to the market for some fresh air.

-o-

The afternoon was clear and cool as men and hobbits alike sloshed through the mud of the streets. Some hauled wheelbarrows behind them, and others just seemed like they wandered to wander. Zerith learned that many a kind of folk dwelled here. It was a place of usual acceptance and she liked the town. She passed for a woman of the land with her dress and it was easier to not feel so suspicious and cautious without her armor. Her weapons were odd to everyone who laid their eyes on them, but she went wordlessly by. Of the market, she only browsed some of the more interesting items. Of the one she lingered on most was a silver scaled cuff inlaid with beryl. She did not consider buying it as she had no time for such luxuries as jewelry, but she enjoyed examining the fine works of the market nevertheless. She returned to her room in the inn before the sun set, and was assured her luck had turned for the better when she saw that the man she had exchanged glances with was not at the spot he had been.  _ Good riddance.  _ The woman was greeted with a view of her room, but she found that she could not close the door. Someone was holding it open. It closed shut silently as she allowed whoever was behind her more room to enter, and she immediately unsheathed her sword and dagger, whipping around to face the assailant. And to think, she had just mused about having a good day…

"Ah, so the man who will not stop ogling me finally decides to say hello." Zerith teased, staring into warm brown eyes.

"I was not 'ogling' you as you say. A woman so armed and armored raises any eye, except those too lazy out of drunkenness." She snorted at his words, noticing his careful speech. The common tongue was not his native language, and he did not look like a man from Rohan or Gondor.

"What do you want, then?" Zerith snapped, pointing her sword at the man's throat, who only clasped his hands behind his back and smiled at her reaction.

"Just to know your business." The man nodded slightly, as though to assure her he would be no threat.

"It is my own, and my own alone. You think you could ask anyone here in the inn or even in Bree about their agendas? There are shady people who would soon harm you."

"And you?" His voice was rich and low.

"I do not harm innocents, but should you prove a threat, I will not hesitate. I am a shadow of my own making." Zerith calmed her voice, watching the man stiffen and become familiar of that which had sent her deadly glares.

"Good. I only wish to speak, and offer a proposition." He moved away from her to sit on her bed, and Zerith lowered her weapons but did not sheathe them. She relaxed enough to take the man's appearance in. He wore a simple tunic, but his boots were well-worn. He had deep brown shoulder-length hair, and light brown skin. His cheekbones were high, and features sharp. "My name, first. Call me Hassun."

"Zerith." She replied before returning to a somewhat-hostile tone. "What kind of proposition?"

"An adventure for an adventurer. You are the most intriguing person I have seen all day, so I come to you to offer a journey, and payment, of course. As you might have guessed, I am no common man of Gondor or Rohan. My people are a long-lost tribe that has moved south from Ered Mithram. We are looking for an outsider to journey to our main camp and speak with our leader, as she requires a task to be performed before we may return to our homeland."

"Why would she need an outsider? It seems like your own people would be more qualified to do her bidding." Her rapt attention was caused by the mention of the Grey Mountains.  _ The Tarakona, of course! Unless there is another tribe, it must be them! He is my way to meet them!  _ Her excitement built up into an overwhelming knot.

"Her interests are not known or explained to us. She is a wise-woman and we follow her guidance. She is troubled by the coming of something great, though we know not what. It is our hope that she might find outside information from a stranger. Perhaps you might suit the task. I have been sent to find someone worthy enough and to travel with them back to our tribe. I assure you, you will be richly rewarded. We have fine leathers, textiles, metals, precious stones—"

"When do we leave?" She interrupted, sheathing her weapons and relaxing her stance.

"As soon as possible, or reasonably quick for you, my lady." He stared, waiting for her reply eagerly.

"Tomorrow." Zerith said quickly, knowing that the quicker she fulfilled what Gostir asked of her, the better. It could be dangerous to tell the Tarakona of who she was, and it was most likely a terrible thing to do, but they might be able to help her understand it better and build up the walls that separated herself from the dragon. He was still forever chained to Melkor, held by an unseen force, and she knew that the connection could and would corrupt her being. The part of the serpent that the First Dark Lord held onto longed for Zerith to succumb to either death or inevitable full, evil possession. There was another side of the dragon that had lived before he moved to Ered Lithui, where his spiral towards corruption took its root. Remembering everything that she had been told that made up her being made the woman very world-weary. How was she to escape someone she had to cling onto for life?

"Ah," Hassun rumbled, standing and stretching with audible cracks, "suitable for me. I will meet you by the stables at dawn tomorrow. Until then." He approached he door, but she stopped him by touching his arm lightly. She felt the slightest tense of muscles, but they quickly relaxed when she stepped back.

"I just have one more question, pardon me. What tribe are you a part of, if it is not too forward to ask?" She was shocked at how small her voice was, the quivering of it making the man turn his gaze on her immediately. Zerith waited with widened eyes.

"The Tarakona, though we will be no more soon." She winced at the hidden woe in his voice, and how he swiftly left her side and shut the door in her face. Leaning up against the wall, she could not forget the look in his eyes. How he looked so deeply, as if he saw something more in her dark gaze. She rested a hand on her heart, closing her eyes to listen to the beating for a moment. Tired from the day's worries, she hurried off to bed and fell into sleep in moments.

When she awoke, she realized how much she wished the dragon came into her dreams that night.

-o-

"Okay, okay!" Zerith giggled as Applegrabber burrowed his nose into her bag of apples. "You love the things so much, no wonder your thievery became your namesake." With a wide smile, she rested her forehead on her steed's neck, running her fingers through his dark mane and plaiting strands of it. Her horse always knew a way to dissolve her worries and instantly put her into a good mood. She had been waiting for Hassun for an hour, and grew impatient by the minute.  _ Maybe it was all a ruse. Maybe he found someone else. Well, with or without him, I leave today.  _ To forget about her troubles, she buried herself in the work of tending to her horse and making sure he was all ready for the world ahead. It was a dangerous place, the uncivilized lands, and she was inexperienced in fighting or travelling save for a few scuffles with wolves. Out there, there was so many more dangers. Barrow-wights, wolves, orcs, goblins, men. Not a comforting thought. She did not doubt that she had been trained to fight by one of the best, but she still felt unconfident in her skills. There was a more pressing fear rising within her heart.  _ If worse comes to worse and I must use my fire-breath, Hassun will know what I am. Surely the Tarakona have not forgotten their old enemy, and the woman who turned their back on them to follow his teachings, only to kill him and end her life in the end. He will want my head if he knows what I am. I need to douse the embers in my throat. _

"Ah, so this was the stallion I saw dumping buckets while the hobbits' backs were turned." A voice called, and she heard sloshing footsteps behind her. The owner of the voice rubbed Applegrabber's nose, earning a sneeze and a facial of horse mucus. With a grimace, Hassun wiped his face with a spare rag draped over a wooden partition. "He only seems to like you. I cannot see why." From out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man smirk.

"You are going to become a ball of sweat in all that thick fur. The snow has passed, and we will not be going by places where you need protections from a harsh frozen wasteland." She retorted, examining the fur armor he was covered from head to toe in. For weapons, she noticed he had a bow and quiver on his back and a sword at his belt. Turning to face him, she took of his fur-lined leather helmet, forcing it into his hands. "I will not here you complain if you become dehydrated and miserable, and you will not rely solely on me while we travel. Where is your horse?"

He muffled a laugh with his hand. "It ran off when it became spooked on my venture to Bree. I should have just asked to stay with you at Weathertop." She saw a snicker coming and she turned away, assembling her bags and saddling Applegrabber, not lowering herself to indulge him.

"You are a strange woman. I have seen few females so fierce, defiant and temperamental." Hassun broke the silence, leaning up against the wooden pole of the stable's structure and crossing his arms, watching her pack up.

"Can you say nothing other than insults?" Zerith grumbled, retying her cloak and leading Applegrabber from the confines of the stable. As Bob passed, she gave him a wave and smile. As soon as he passed, she shot a glare at her new male companion.

"It is not always a bad thing, you should know. You are unique. It was all I meant to say. Forgive me, I am not well at communicating with others." He mounted her horse, moving back so that she could hop up and take the reins. She did so, and resisted the urge to squirm out of his grasp when he placed his hands lightly upon her waist. Her focus was on the people who gave her sideways looks as her horse pushed forward into a trot.  _ Soon, I will no longer feel like everyone thinks of me as though I am evil. I will find salvation in some way, and some solace because of my blessing and burden. _

"Yes," She mumbled, only loud enough for him to hear, "I suppose I am. Thank you." She suddenly had an interest in Applegrabber's mane, and kept her face down, pulling her hood up as they passed the gate of Bree. Her mind wandered to the road, and she spoke up quickly. "Where are we going, exactly?"

"We should go around the Misty Mountains and head for Dale. From there, I can show the way." Hassun spoke quietly as they both trudged along the beginning of The Green Way.

"Have you travelled a lot of Middle Earth?" She inquired, urging Applegrabber into a leisurely canter.

"No. Only when I was searching for a companion for my people did I first explore the lands unknown to me previously. The way I suggest we go was the same way I travelled, though I went alone."

"Alone?" Zerith asked in awe, wondering how he managed to escape all the perils. "You must be a great warrior, or just sneaky."

He chuckled at her remark, and she listened to the deep rumbles inside his chest. "I am proficient at stealth, though I prefer a mix of combat and shadow. It gives you an edge on the enemy. Still, our minds and senses are what will aid us the most. That and your friend here." He gave Applegrabber a hearty pat on the side which made the horse rear and break into a straight, pounding gallop. Zerith burst out with laughter as Hassun was thrown back with a yell of surprise, and he held onto her for dear life as she held her hood on her head and steered Applegrabber down the old road.

-o-

The two companions started the cycle of travel and rest as they stopped between Bree and Tharbad just as the shadows faded into the night. Taking refuge close to the road under the safety of a jutting cliff upon the head and a tangled mess of trees, a flickering fire lit up their faces. Their bedrolls were safely tucked under the protection of the cliff as they sat before the flames. Hassun stared into them with an unreadable expression, but Zerith's gaze was to the treetops, where she longed to see the stars. Her comrade rummaged through one of Applegrabber's saddlebags as Zerith tied his reins to a tree trunk. He produced potatoes and carrots ripe for a stew, and a solitary hare hung from a rope upon the horse's saddle. Supper started as soon as Zerith disappeared into the concealment of the woods, foraging for herbs and other safe plants to eat. When she drew too far into the depth of the wilderness she spun on her heel to return to her companion. Her steps were quick and light and the howling of wolves spurred her towards the light of the fire. Safety closed in around her as she saw a pot hanging above flames with Hassun stirring with a hum. Dashing the food she had gathered into the stew, she allowed herself to rest, sitting and watching the man who she had been lucky to discover.

"I should thank you for accepting my proposal," Hassun spoke softly as they ate. "I was beginning to doubt I would find someone so capable of making the trip."

"What made you think I am capable? We are only on a first-name basis." Zerith responded, taking a long drink of water as he thought about his next words.

"I rely on my instincts. They are vital to being a hunter and tracker." He replied deeply, watching her closely.

"You must be skilled, then."

"I am the lead hunter of my tribe, grandson of the shaman. I train the others and oversee them. I must be on my toes, and not even my bloodline would assure me such a tough and esteemed position within my people." His voice was guarded and his throat was tense. She did not expect him to be so on edge when he spoke about his own flesh and blood.

"It does seem like there is a lot of pressure on you. Are you the only one who leads the hunters?" She asked, crawling over to her bedroll and unsheathing her sword and dagger, placing them close to her so she could utilize them if needed. She left her armor on, for it brought her great comfort with its weight upon her body. Letting her hair free of its many braids, she combed it with her fingers, burrowing into her bedroll and propping herself up on her elbows.

"Yes." Hassun sighed, rubbing his temples. "Those who are older than the rest do try to guide and mentor them, though. It is a mixed blessing. I may not worry about them as much, but the tactics for hunting differ, and it confuses things." Zerith laid her head down, listening to the timbre of his voice and his movements as he stood and paced the camp.

"You should not concern yourself too much. It is bad for the heart and soul." Yawning, she closed her eyes, resting her forearm over her eyes. Within a few minutes, she heard him come close to her, preparing for sleep.

"A good leader always cares for his people, even if it is to his detriment." His voice had finality to it, and she soon drifted off to sleep, the lull of the woods and fire becoming a lullaby.

-o-

Darkness consumed her vision, and like glass the haze of unconsciousness shattered before her. She stood in a familiar place, with dark rock beneath her feet and an endless shadowy void as the sky. Her heart filled with an emptiness and her gut constricted into a knot. She was alone here, when she knew she should not be. She needed him! How she lamented for the absence of the bringer of solace and guidance. So afraid, so afraid. He must have had the binds to darkness pulling him into the abyss of evil. That was what he said, that he would allow her to speak to him when he was not under the influence of corruption. She could not guess how long he would be gone from her land of dreams and nightmares, but there were so many unanswered questions, and the weight of an unknown burden increased as though she were being drawn to a magnetic force.

"Gostir?" She whispered, fear muffling her voice until it was a mouse's. She could not comprehend the empty numbness inside her heart. There was no response, and she stood as the dream-world faded from view.

-o-

In the sluggish moments of awakening, Zerith felt arms roughly shake her, and a voice calling out to her. Wincing as she opened her eyes, she was met with familiar ones.

"You have got to wake up. This is no time to throw your life away for sleep." With those words, her weapons were thrust into her hands and she was pulled up from the comfort of her bedroll. Warmth suddenly left her, and she noticed that the fire had gone out and Hassun was in a fighting stance, gripping a broadsword. In the darkness of the early morning, she heard the frantic and excited barks of wolves. They were cackling like madmen hunting their prey. Zerith realized quickly that  _ they  _ were the targets.

Leaping out from the nook of the hill, she took in the scene. Applegrabber was safe but spooked, beginning to pull away from the tree he was tied to. Hassun had her back, listening to the call of the dastardly hounds. All that could be seen were the trees, and the glowing fog hovering above the grass.

"What is the situation?" She inquired swiftly, as she and her companion circled, keeping their backs pressed against each other.

"You heard the howling last night. I tossed and turned because of it until I saw one, then two, then three creep close to the camp. The fourth one was the last straw." Hassun responded angrily.

"Do you know how many there are?" She asked, feeling the oncoming death hang heavily in the air.

"Besides the one I saw, I do not know, but the howls are constant, loud, and ominous. I do not know if the two of us can handle this." The strength in his voice waned.

"Have some hope, friend." She tried to make light of the situation, receiving only a frustrated huff in return. Just as Hassun inhaled to scold her, a beast jumped from foliage into the clearing. It was a mottled brown canine with savage fangs and putrid yellow eyes. Snarling, the hair that rose on its neck made it seem much larger than it already was. It prowled low to the ground, sizing up the larger of the two humans. Foolishly it lunged towards Hassun as his stroke fell upon its neck, and its blood painted the ground sanguine. Only a pawn to a larger pack. As soon as it perished, two others replaced it, both frothing at the mouth with bloodlust in their eyes. Breaking out of a daze, Zerith whistled at a white wolf close to her, who had turned its back to target Hassun. When it turned, she kicked it hard in the snout and brought her dagger down upon its spine and shortsword in its belly. It let out an ear-piercing cry, and she drove her weapons further to quickly end its life. Her heart was beating furiously as she stared down at the lifeless, bloody body.

"Your horse!" Hassun yelled, bringing two wolves down and wincing as he glanced back at Zerith, who was already running to save her friend. Another one of the wretched beasts was nipping at its heels, but Applegrabber was not letting it gain any ground, furiously bucking and stomping. As Zerith drew closer, a massive force sent her sprawling on the ground, weapons flying behind her. A stink of death and muck filled her nose with the world blurring before her eyes. A furry, twisted face brushed her own, digging its claws into her shoulders to pin her down. She let out a cry and punched the wolf as hard as she could as it grazed its teeth by her jaw, trying to get to her lifeline. With one arm fighting as best she could, the other searched behind her for her sword, dagger,  _ anything  _ to do more damage than her measly punches could against solid muscle. Her name was being called but it was lost to her in her fight for life. A sharp pain passed her jaw and it spurred her on, kicking and combating. She was tiring, and using the remaining adrenaline she grabbed the scruff of the wolf's neck and shoved it away with a boot to the abdomen, rolling to one side to escape and flipping up onto her hands and feet, running to her weapons before her enemy could recover. It lunged, but she would not let it have her again. At the last second she raised her blades, and shuddered at a sickening gurgle that marked the hound's demise. Looking up and wiping the blood from her neck with her elbow, Zerith wiped her blades off and went to the rescue of her horse, slashing at the wolf who had begun to rip into Applegrabber's rump with both her blades. She had killed three, but Hassun had killed more as he was the prime target. After the fifth body at her feet, Zerith had all but gone solo to fight the plagues on her night. Being caught up in the heat of battle had given her tunnel vision. When she glanced back at him finally, her heart leapt.

She called his name as he called hers out of alarm. Six drove him into a corner, back into a wide-trunked tree. His eyes shone with no fear, only anger, but it would not help him for long. He did not look up to her face as he was about to meet his maker, nor did he listen to her calls as she ran to him. The only thing he noticed was the warmth and heat of flame arousing a burning smell of fur in his face.

There was no other way to go about things. In her mind, Zerith accepted everything that would come to her because of who she was. It was simply a matter of resigned hardening of her heart.


	6. Time Changes Nothing

**Chapter Six: Time Changes Nothing**

The first time, emotions had been leeched away to come flooding back in a surge of energy and power. The second time, it was rage and anger, and a desire to learn and be taught. The third time, the most recent, it broke walls down, destroyed the body and weakened the soul. It was different from its predecessors and brought fear.

 

Zerith had raced to her companion in desperation, knowing there were too many wolves for him to escape. If he would strike, one would pounce upon him and the rest would follow. She had not known him for long yet he was a comrade. Bonds made in battle were stronger than bonds in blood. It was a split second decision that saved his life and ended hers. She had known this. What else could be done?

 

_ Breath, focus.  _ She took in a long inhale, feeling tight pressure building in her heart and an overwhelming heat radiating. It was a matter of letting go, but doing so would make the flame inside her volatile. Zerith's heart pounded in her ears, and she could not keep it in for long. Drawing closer to the wolves, she released the buildup of the storm within her. It was a blaze; the wolves could not be seen in the inferno and their cries were deafening. Seconds passed by and she still spit fire. Closing her mouth and extinguishing the embers within her, she watched the grass beneath her feet catch and burn away. Tarnished canines yelped and jumped, their tails smoking like torches. Two turned on her while a couple fled and the others returned to their previous target, who was too stunned to move for a moment. Zerith and he exchanged glances, and her knees turned to slush at the murder in his eyes. Not being able to bear his penetrating stare, she cut down a wolf and ravaged the other, wiping the sticky blood of the slashes that tore into her shoulder where the leather had been clawed at and worn. Hassun followed suit as he defeated his twin enemies, and all was still as the remaining pack of wolves retreated into the depths of the forest.

 

Zerith let out a slow exhale, and her fatigue dropped her down on one knee. Her flame-breath consumed so much out of her like it never had before. It was a mistake. She could have just fought the wolves to draw some attention away from her companion, but instead she had given up her most precious secret to the one who might actually have known what she was. She had been prepared that it would be spilled eventually, but not this early in the journey. He would hate her. He did hate her. If she came out of the confrontation unscathed, she would consider herself lucky.

 

"Well, we made it." Her voice was raw and cracked as she looked up, watching sparks fly into the air as the ground burned and Hassun tried to stop the consumption of the flame. Her cheeks were smeared with blood, covering the sparse freckles dotted beneath the iron-smelling substance. With a pounding headache, Zerith rubbed her temples and traced her ragged scars, silently praying for some hope that might be given to her. She heard his heavy steps towards her that quickened as she approached, and she was ripped up by her neck and pinned against a tree, feeling a strong pressure on her throat and a sting. Staring into his eyes she saw nothing. A cut grazed his cheek and he had not shaved in a while. His forehead displayed dirt. She saw nothing.

The pressure increased on her windpipe and she could not breathe. Reaching up she squeezed his hand with her own two, knowing she had not the heart nor the strength to betray him. He said nothing for a long time, only stared into her watery eyes with a disgusted sneer. She had begun to see black spots and accepted the end when an unreadable expression akin to pain formed on his face and he let her go, dropping to his knees as he crumbled. She fell forward next to him, landing on her hands and knees. Life, life! Zerith panted, greedily taking in the precious oxygen she was deprived of. 

 

A burning rage filled her, and she stumbled to her feet, though she did not draw her weapon. "Are you so foolish to judge so quickly?" She asked in desperation, panting and wincing at the throbbing pain and blood trickling from her jaw. "I am no monster! Your people know who I am, though they are too stubborn and locked on the past to see it. A long time ago a prophecy was struck in stone. A woman and dragon, once friends, died enemies. Their souls did not pass on, and they were reborn as one." Glancing behind him, she saw Applegrabber try to rid himself from his restraints to come to her aid, but his efforts were futile.

 

"And how is your knowledge of our history relevant to who you are?" He grumbled, standing still as a statue.

 

"It is everything. It makes up who I am. I am the  _ one. _ Satherra and Gostir incarnate. The body of a Tarakona warrior and the soul of a dragon, formerly a cold drake."

 

"Cold drakes do not breathe fire," he informed her.

 

"No," she nodded resolutely, "they do not. I am still trying to learn why everything is the way it is. That is why I accepted your proposition so enthusiastically. You can bring me to your tribe, and I can see the prophecy-stone."

 

"No one is permitted to see it. It has driven sane men mad by just a glance." Hassun seethed, shaking his head and wiping the sweat off of his brow beneath the glow of the rising sun.

 

"No one but your leaders and the honored," Zerith replied charmingly. "I will earn the honor. Your wise-woman needs a task performed that requires a special someone, yes? I am special, and I will complete it."

 

"My people would kill you on the mentioning of who you were. We have passed on the tale of bad blood and luck since the treason of Satherra."

 

"Treason?"

 

He watched her stretch and wince at sore muscles. "By befriending a servant of Morgoth and Sauron, she betrayed us. I reckon she went further than that. She was our light in darkness and it was extinguished. We have been lost without her ever since then. She was always different from the rest of her kin; distant, grim, and forlorn. When the children would sing songs and dance 'round the fire, the coldness in her eyes did not melt." His eyes narrowed as he watched her gaze confusedly at him.

 

"So if mentioning who I am earns me execution, I shall remain anonymous. I have played the part of someone who I am not before. Should the secrets about me be discovered, I will become quite the diplomat and peacemaker. Or, I will flee." Zerith's mouth twitched slightly in a grin. Hassun huffed, exasperated with her.

 

"You will be discovered. If you seek out the prophecy-stone, everyone will know who you are. The only way to reveal its inscription is to use what created it. Gostir's blood seeped into the land where it lay. It is a monument, or a sort of gravestone to mark the place of his demise. Your blood may show what it foretells."

 

"I only have the dragon's soul," Zerith corrected sharply.

 

"Hmm," She had stumped him, for he stopped and stared blankly in thought at the ground. Pacing, he wiped the dirt crusted in his hand's wrinkles on his dark forest green pants. She noticed a new wound that slashed on his collarbone above where he wore a mail-shirt.

 

Approaching him slowly, she reached to grasp his hand. "Let me care for your injuries." She was not surprised at his recoil.

 

"Come no closer to me." He snapped, though he did not brandish his weapon at her. Zerith only snorted at his harsh words.

 

"I only want to help you. Fine. If you want your wounds to get infected, I will not stop you." Suffocated by the hostility in the air, she drifted to Applegrabber, who pushed his nose into her chest lovingly. He only had a few scratches, so she was grateful that he had been spared from the wolves. Taking bandages out of her pack and a spare cloth, she cleaned her cuts with the rag and some water from her waterskin. The wrapping she placed onto her jaw was rough on her skin, but it was effective and she was glad to have brought plenty of medical bandaging. She could feel injuries in other places on her body, but those would have to be dealt with when she could undress away from Hassun. Glancing over at him, he was tending to himself, though not with as much care as she was. It seemed like seconds had gone by before he was hastily packing up and grabbing her, signaling that they had to leave.

 

"Where are we going, and why so quickly? The danger has passed." Zerith mumbled with protest.

 

"Tharbad. We cannot stay here. Those wolves were not ordinary. They sought us out on their own initiative, despite the danger. Something or someone has twisted them, and that means our presence is known and unwelcome." In mere minutes their camp was gone and what could be taken was packed on their persons or Applegrabber. Zerith stilled for a moment. He had threatened her, though she could sympathize with him. He  _ was _ a threat to her, but he was her only hope.

 

Hoisting himself up, Hassun scooted back to allow her room on her mount. Again, she hesitated. He looked down at her and all the hardness in his face melted away in that instant.  _ He must know what I’m thinking.  _ Hassun was her only chance. Their paths had crossed for a reason that she was not about to let easily slip through her fingers.

 

She followed suit after unlashing him from the tree, and made a sharp turn towards the road, pushing Applegrabber into a full gallop, who seemed happy to be free from the dark woods.

 

-o-

 

"You were up the whole night, yet you fought with great valor. You should rest, Hassun." Zerith mumbled as they slowly trotted on the road under the bright glow of the day.

 

Hassun did not respond for a while, and she had almost thought he had followed her advice. His voice made her shiver at its proximity to her neck. "We will be at Tharbad soon. There is no point. We will need to find a way to cross the river Greyflood."

 

Clearing her throat to hide her embarrassment though he could not see her face, she shook her head slightly. "I know you do not trust me, but you cannot go on like this. How are we to cross the river with my horse, anyway?"

 

He huffed, banging his head on her back as though one might do with a wall. "We will either have to leave him, or build some sort of way across. The bridge that connects the banks is completely crumbled in parts. That is if anything will even hold your beast." Applegrabber snorted and Zerith rubbed the backs of his ears affectionately.

 

"You are no beast, my friend. That silly Tarakona man is clearly  _ blind _ ." The woman murmured in a gaudy, cutesy voice. She could not prevent the smile that formed when she heard the man's warm chuckle that he tried to hide with little success.

 

"So you hate me but still enjoy my humor and wit? You are such an enigma." She added, and was given silence in return.

 

"I do not hate you but I do not trust you. I do not know what you are, and I would be foolish to trust the unknown."

 

"Yet you seemed to trust me, a complete stranger, with carrying out a secret task for your reclusive people back at the inn. You also forget that I saved your life."

 

"With your witch-fire!" He exclaimed with a growl.

 

"I did not ask for it, and I am not a witch. I just happen to hold a powerful soul within me. Satherra and Gostir make up my being. I hold both friend and foe within me. I do not understand it myself, and that is why I want to help you. Maybe the prophecy-stone can tell me more. If it foretells of my coming, it must mean something." Zerith replied with a bored tone, since she had gone through the same lines before and would most likely continue to do so.

  
  


"What will you honestly do if you were to be discovered? My people hate you. You are a source of regret, sorrow, and anger. There is still some pride in Satherra, though." He hissed by her ear, and she almost believed that he was trying to make her nervous. She had never been so close to a man such as Hassun before. The only one she had ever ridden with was Gandalf, and he had never made her flustered in this way that she felt. She brushed off her rambling inner thoughts as just a normal part of being a young 'maiden'.

 

"Tell me of the regret." Zerith asked, wanting to know more about the minds of those she would be dealing with.

 

Drawing in a great breath, Hassun started slowly. "My people regret having not kept a closer eye on Satherra. She chose to be alone, and they thought that she was gifted with great wisdom and strength, the makings of a great leader. In truth, she was supposed to lead them after the chieftain's passing. Instead, she had forsaken her people for a dragon of all things. Those who followed her went blindly because they saw her as a goddess. They eventually returned to their tribe where they rightfully belonged. Regret came about because it was her distance that let her completely abandon her own people!"

 

"And the sorrow?"

 

"Sorrow grew because they had lost a woman of their own whom they loved. They revered her for her virtues, and she cared for them greatly. Despite what she did, she wanted the best for them. Perhaps she thought she would disappoint them. With her leaving this world, they lost the beacon and last chance of hope for their people." Hassun lamented. She felt terrible for asking him, hearing his voice break. Despite Satherra's death in the late First Age, it still had after-effects and clearly meant a lot to the man behind her.

 

"How did she die?" Zerith asked gently, not wanting to push him.

 

"They say she had no injuries or illness. She was young and age did not touch her. After slaying Gostir, with his blood covering her, she wept violently, sinking to the ground. No one could have predicted her passing. She lay resting next to him, face down, as though she were sleeping." He stopped for a moment to compose himself. "As though she was glad the end had come." With his final words, she shuddered, not being able to imagine the sorrow that Satherra felt.  _ The dragon and woman must have been quite close. _

 

"I truly apologize for making you so upset." Zerith whispered with a bow of her head.

 

"It is no trouble. You have made me upset before." He laughed bitterly with heavy words.

 

"I will try not to, then. It is never my intention. Well, I do like to annoy you, but not  _ that  _ much." Zerith smirked, trying to lighten the conversation since it had taken a dark turn.

 

"Are you so sure, my lady?"

 

" _ Go to sleep. _ "

 

-o-

 

With some time to herself, though she was reminded that she still had a companion by his steady, warm breathing, Zerith was left to her thoughts. She was afraid of the future, and a little of Hassun, but he had ceased to act like he wanted to kill her.  _ I am more useful alive than dead. He wants his tribe to decide my fate. They would judge me before they even had a chance to get to know me better. Figures. _ She pushed her hood up as there was a sudden chill in the air, letting Applegrabber trot slowly and cautiously while she braided her hair down to the side. It was getting so long, to the bottom of her ribs that she thought about cutting completely off. Looking up, to her left she noted the dense forest and the high hills. They drew very close to Tharbad, as she could hear faint sounds of the river. Riding slowly to give Hassun some time to sleep, Zerith hummed to herself in boredom while braiding her horse's mane.

 

It was late in the afternoon when the trees dwindled on the sides of the road and she found herself in view of the ruined town and fortresses of Tharbad. Many crumbling towers and structures of sorts lined the roadway, growing in density as she pushed further in. There was an inclining road that intersected the middle of the town next to a large corner house. The path led to the bridge that they could cross to get to the riverbank, but upon approaching, Zerith's fears were confirmed. Few parts of the bridge were even standing. It was too far to jump and she could not lose Applegrabber. Turning away and riding back into the main ruins, she took in the view of the desolation. Craning her neck to look at the sleeping man behind her, she did not want to be rude and wake him, but her surroundings gave her a bad feeling and she did not want to stay long. He was so peaceful with his head drooped down and shoulders pitched forward. No sign of hostility or troubles marred his brow, and she caught herself gazing too intensely at his face. Whispering his name and shaking his shoulder, she pulled him out of dreamland.

"We are here at Tharbad, Hassun," Zerith murmured with a tilt of her head, "and I do not know how to cross the river. I seek your guidance."

 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes. I crossed here when I split off from the rest of my kin to search for someone who could help us."

 

"There were others like you?"

 

He replied with a rumble deep within his throat. "One was to stay in Minas Tirith, another in Edoras, and I went to Bree. After I found you, I sent a crow with a message informing my tribesmen that someone suitable had been found. I was alone when I came here and I was on horseback." There was a spark in Zerith's mind.

 

"Did you happen to pass by Weathertop?"

 

His eyes met hers as though he fully understood the meaning behind her question. "I did, but only because I had heard some interesting rumors of a witch who had been hunted by the men of Gondor. I fancied a witch hunt."

Zerith's mouth went slightly agape.  _ Uirien.  _ "That happened a year ago. Why would you honestly think she was still there?"

 

He chuckled. "Curiosity, my lady. The lands were still charred to bits and bones were scattered. You seem like you know more than I do about it." He leaned in so that he was closer to her, and he stared down at her as she leaned back.

 

"I met the witch. She was an elleth named Uirien. She killed the men who were hunting her. She was no worse for the wear, and disappeared. I do not know of her whereabouts." Shivering, she kept her voice steady.

 

"You  _ are  _ more knowledgeable than me in some aspects, it seems." He snorted, noting her frightened and annoyed appearance and shifting back in the saddle.

 

"I will only give as much as I receive, but enough talk." Zerith hissed uncomfortably. "Tell me how to cross the river since you have already done so."

 

Turning back to the task at hand, he resumed a serious tone. "The river was shallow and slow. It is wide, though, so we must be cautious. Go back to just before you entered these ruins, and travel down to the riverbank." Nodding her head, Zerith hurried her horse who darted through the rubble and back to the forest. Tree leaves drifted down in bright colors above her as she slowly descended towards the river. She saw glimpses of it through the beeches, but nothing more than that.

 

"So where are you from, girl?" Hassun asked behind her, and she frowned remembering that she had asked for quiet.

 

"Minas Tirith." She replied shortly.

 

"You are a fair way from home, then." He had caught her, and her eyes widened.

 

"I am  _ from  _ there, but no longer."

 

"Did you not enjoy it?" He asked softly, taking notice of her sluggish response.

 

"I was exiled by my family, and no others would take me in. That was, oh, seven years ago. I was eleven, I believe. I went to Rohan seeking help, and someone was kind enough to take me in. They provided me a home that lay northeast of here, nurturing and teaching me. We visited Uirien to seek out the possibility of knowledge on my dragon soul. I fell into a long sleep she had induced that she said would bring me closer to understanding Gostir. When I awoke, both the witch and my caretaker were gone. I have been on my own since then." The woman murmured, stopping Applegrabber at the pebbly shore of the river.

 

"We need to check the river. I believe it to be safe, but one can never be too careful." Turning to nod, Zerith leapt off her horse carefully, beginning to walk into the river. Chattering her teeth suddenly, the cold leeched through her boots and greaves but surprisingly did not completely leave her swamped in her shoes. The current was slow and as she went further into the middle of the water, the depth remained the same. Even if things looked well enough to permit them to cross, the body of water was vast; she could barely see the other side through the fog.

 

"It is alright, if terribly cold. I do not know how far it is across, though. That is a problem." Zerith called, hurrying back to rid herself from the chill. Mounting Applegrabber who snorted at the icy water from her boots touching his flanks, she urged him forth with encouraging words and praises. The two of them were tense, and Hassun gave the woman a comforting pat on the shoulder. "I will not risk my horse just to cross one river." Her voice was hoarse and came in a breathless whisper as her eyes were glued on Applegrabber's steps and the water below.

 

"He is strong and resilient. My horse was in just the same condition as yours when I crossed and I had no trouble."

 

"That was a while ago. It was warmer back then." Zerith reminded him, sending a silent prayer for her horse's safety. This was a cold day like no other that passed through even the soul itself.

 

In silence, they trudged through the silvery water, swallowing the fear that the heavy fog brought as it surrounded and suffocated them. Trying her best to focus on her horse and the man behind her, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.  _ I am already nervous and we are crossing a river, of all things. How pathetic can I get? _

 

Running her fingers along Applegrabber's neck, she urged him forward with more vigor. He picked up speed and soon they were halfway to the other side of the water. The bobbing of her horse alongside the movement of the water was making her dizzy and she looked down at her shaking hands.  _ I am pathetic. _

 

"We must ride hard on the North-South Road, Hassun. I have heard many bad things about Dunland." Zerith spoke, ignoring her nerves.

 

"As you wish." He simply huffed, keeping hold of her waist for balance as the horse did his best to move quickly with chilled, stiff legs.

 

"No arguments?" She scoffed. "What has gotten into you? Where is the man I know that scorns me in every word?"

 

"I can do that silently." He sneered.  _ Ah, we are back to being hostile! Lovely. I did have a part to play in this… _

 

The fog cleared suddenly, and the water became shallower. They were nearing the shore. When Applegrabber's legs were exposed to the air, he neighed and stomped the pebbles beneath him. Zerith got off as soon as she was able to and dried off her friend. He gave her a playful shove, but despite his joy at returning to dry land, he was shivering.

 

"We need to make camp. Start a fire," Zerith said to Hassun who had been standing behind her, looking at the land they had yet to travel.

 

"It is still light out. We do not have time to waste." He huffed, shaking his head and running a hand through his messy hair.

 

"I will not risk my horse's health. He needs to warm up. We all do." She countered, narrowing her eyes.

 

"Whatever," He replied coldly, turning away and climbing a flat hill overlooking the river. When Applegrabber was well enough, Zerith led him up the hill slowly, squinting at the sun that caught in her eyes.

 

"This area is a bit conspicuous." She murmured under her breath, but bit her tongue when she heard the sharp inhale that meant insult. Her horse grazed freely while she spread bedrolls on the grass, running her fingers through the endless, soft green. With the cold dissipating from her body, she let her hood down, freeing her hair from its restraints. "I need to wash up, if that is alright with you." She hesitated to speak, but he seemed to only half-hear her.

 

"Yes, do what you like. Be careful." With his approval, she gathered up a few necessities. Remembering the sting of her injuries, she brought bandages and plenty of plants she knew would be preventatives against infection. With slow steps, she made her way back to the river, and looked back to bump into a familiar, warm body.

 

"Followed me, did you, dear friend?" She giggled, running her hands along Applegrabber's neck. Finding a secluded, hidden spot with plenty of cover, she began to undress. Applegrabber stood as another barrier, his long, tall body concealing her away from the world.  _ Smart horse. _ When she was comfortably free of her armor, she examined her injuries. There were bruises and shallow scrapes on both of her shoulders and marks all along her neck, but it was nothing that could not be easily tended to. Readying herself for the freezing waters of the river, she waded in, chattering her teeth. Quickly scrubbing herself with a spare block of soap she had made so long ago by herself and washing her hair, she submerged herself into the world below. Shades of silver danced before her in a blurry realm. Particles swam around her illuminated by sharp tendrils of light and she felt as though everything had changed. The freezing temperature numbed her cheeks and she was frozen in time. Distant memories flooded her, and she felt suffocated by them.  _ Suffocated… _

 

Darting her head out of the water, she gasped for breath. Brought back to reality, she stared up at the pale, sunlit sky and raced towards where she could find shelter from prying eyes. Applegrabber was aloof, not blinking at her chattering, drenched naked form. Wincing at the air hitting her body, she made to dry herself off vigorously as fast as she could, putting on her undergarments before cleaning her wounds again. The scent of dried herbs she crushed filled her nose and she breathed in deeply, trying to recall their name since she had long forgotten it, only identifying them by appearance. Pressing them into the cuts on her shoulders and jaw. Wrapping them up with bandages, she cleaned off her armor in the river and put on a long, plain tunic and trousers.  _ Always bring a pair of dry socks, _ she thought as she wiggled her toes in their wooly warmth.

 

Once she was warmly dressed and her damp hair gathered high upon the crown of her head, she returned with Applegrabber, who no longer seemed to dislike the chilly Greyflood. Gazing up at the smoke drifting high above camp, she quickened her pace, heartbeat ceasing for a moment in realization.

 

"Hassun, it is dangerous being so exposed here. With that smoke—"

 

"We were hidden at our first camp and we still were discovered. You think it makes any difference?" He interrupted, balling his hands into fists as he took hold of his own belongings in his arms. "I have done this before. I know what I am doing."

 

"They were wolves! They have keen senses. Despite what happened, we need to not let it change much. If anything, let it make us more cautious."

 

"Are you stupid?" He lashed out suddenly with raging anger that caused her to step back closer to her horse. "It changed  _ everything!  _ I am forced to go roaming around Middle Earth with an evil monster! A plague upon my kind. My hands are tied. I have become more cautious, Zerith," He spat her name and her brow furrowed, "and I have learned that even women can be abominations."

 

A dreadful silence was all that followed. She was numb. No coherent thoughts passed. They stood with widened eyes waiting for the other to say  _ something.  _ Like her swim through the water, memories came to her as though she were dreaming. She remembered this familiar void in her heart, the same that built just before the burning rage when she first breathed fire.  _ This is different. There is no anger, but sorrow, because his words are true.  _ Salty tears ran down her cheeks before she felt them arise.

 

"Why have you not killed me?" Her voice was a hoarse whisper, choked by a suppressed cry. He had not changed his expression but softened, slowly approaching her. She backed up and was surprised at the disappointment in his eyes, but could go no further with her equine friend pressing against her back. Hassun dropped all that he was carrying at his feet midway between them and approached her in a trance-like fashion. Grabbing the reins of her horse tightly, she was prepared to escape. He was an arm's reach away from her, and she felt the shadow of his body coming closer. Wincing as if she were preparing for a slap from her mother, she closed her eyes in preparation. She was shocked to find his fingers ghosting along her face, wiping away her tears. Slowly opening her glassy eyes, she sucked in a gasping breath that her emotions smothered, she locked her gaze with him, not daring to make a sound for she knew her words would betray her.

 

"You intrigue me," he murmured, and it was as if she were staring at a completely different person. He must have seen the twinge of irritation in her eyes at his words, for he quickly corrected himself. "You could not have wished for all that was brought upon you. I…forgive me." He shook his head and looked down before crouching to pick up what he dropped and disappearing to the shore of the river. Zerith watched his heavy steps and how he never looked back before she approached the fire, beginning dinner for them. 

As she stared into the glow the flame emitted, she contemplated his words with a solemn face.  _ He is no different from anyone else who discovers my identity. Not the first, nor the last to loathe me. I should turn this pain into a lesson. Do I deserve this? Was I destined to become who I am? Why me?  _ She let a small whimper pass through her lips, and realized how ridiculous she was.  _ I am a fool, not one to be pitied. I will find out the truth of why this even started and what I must do. It is the only thing that might bring me comfort, save for Mithrandir…  _ She had tried to block the recollection of him from her mind because she had little hope in reuniting with him. This journey very well could claim her life. She was inexperienced, and many perils lay ahead of her. Even if she should have any chance of seeing him again, his sudden departure had left her shaken.  _ If he of all people abandoned me, then what hope do I have?  _ Reaching out at the fire until the heat became unbearable, it brought her some understanding.  _ Fire consumes all and does not discriminate. It decimates everything in its path until there is nothing more it wants. Even if it touches nothing that people value, it consumes what births it. Though I control it, I have already lost control before. How long until it completely engulfs me? _

 

By the time Hassun had returned, she was handing him some spare bread and cheese along with boiled vegetables. The sun had set and any trace of warmth in the bare air was gone. The two had not said a word to each other save for pleasantries, and they had gotten used to the uncomfortable silence between them. Zerith had become particularly interested in the swish of Applegrabber's tail, whose head began to nod off. She felt Hassun's constant gaze but steeled herself to ignore him. It could not last, however.

 

"You are only eighteen." He mumbled and it sounded like he was questioning the fact.

 

"What about it?" She replied icily.

 

"You do not look or act like it. I was only surprised." He sounded embarrassed and shrugged in an attempt to brush off what he had originally said.

 

"Why?" She inquired, cleaning up after the both of them with harsh movements.

 

"You seem much older. Much wiser and world-weary; like you carry a heavy burden. I meant no offense. For being so young, you are also a capable fighter."

 

"For an  _ abomination,  _ you mean." Zerith snorted.

 

"That is not my point," He sighed loudly, "I have just seen men of Gondor that were just beginning to train at your age."

 

"I am not a man, if you have even noticed." She countered, taking a whetstone to temper her sword and dagger.

 

"Of course I have. How could I not?" He blurted out, and she looked up at him to read his face.  _ Was there a double meaning behind that? Valar, this man has more mood swings than I do. _

 

He clearly did not mean all that he said to come out in the way it did, for he wore a look of shock for a split second. Coughing, he continued. "It was a compliment. Forget it, if it troubles you so much." She did not respond, and quickly changed the subject.

"How old are you, then?"

 

"Twenty-two, though it matters little. My life might be a third of the way done with, and time changes nothing." He watched her strokes idly.

 

"What do you mean?" She asked, concentrating on her weapons.

 

"Which part?" He smirked.

 

"Either. Both."

 

"Some of the Tarakona, and even other clans experience shortened lifespans. It does not happen to everyone, but there are enough men and women that die too young. It is as though they pass from old age, yet some can live to double what they do. It started a few years ago, all of a sudden. I wonder if there is something that has caused it. Our shaman was investigating it. Perhaps she might find your assistance useful in the matter. Time changes nothing, though, as I have found. I have grown from a boy to a man and few things have changed. My beliefs, my morals, and what I believe to be true and right. Perhaps it was due to the information I was force fed as a child; that outsiders are evil beings that would only cause us harm. That I must believe what our leaders say without question. Those principles still stand true. I am constantly reminded of them, but now I question the meaning behind it. Ah, I did not mean to trouble you." He got up and stretched, burying his nose in a book from his pack.

 

"It is no trouble. I enjoy listening to you talk when you do not insult me." She smiled at him, though her heart was still hurting at his words before dinner.

 

"Perhaps I should practice. With any luck, I will become better at it." He returned the expression, and she did not fail to take notice of how the smile spread to his eyes.  _ Is anything normal with this man? He is so unpredictable. _

 

With the last of the tasks of the day done, the two of them were very glad to crawl under warm furs and sleep before the fire. While Hassun had a resting face of peace and sleep, Zerith knew she would not. This night, she would not be alone in her world of dreams.


	7. Innocence Lost

**Chapter Seven: Innocence Lost**

                        His wings pinned her beneath him, like the walls of a prison. In many dreams, Gostir had been far less menacing, provided she had not said or done anything to provoke his wrath. Due to his volatile temper by nature, such calm moments were rare.

                        But this time, he was _furious_.

                        “You _insult_ me, human, and all I have done. Have the stories of Satherra instilled nothing within you? The journey I sent you on was one meant travelled alone. This Tarakona man, with his sweet words and stinging lashes, beguiles you. Like a maiden, you--“

                        “I am _no_ simple maiden, cold drake!” Zerith lashed out, pushing his snout away from her face, although he did not budge. “He is only my key to finding your egg-shell and deciphering the prophecy, which, I should note, _you_ tasked me with. You never gave me directions, so how was I know how to cross Middle Earth and find a dwindling people? If gaining his trust leads me to fulfill your task, then what does it matter?” Zerith hissed, escaping his wings so she could look at him in all of his true, menacing form.

                        “I should have let your fire-breath consume him. He will only lead to your failure. Steel your knees, for when he is in your presence, you shall not bend your knee to him.” He began to flap his wings, and then entered the black emptiness that was sky. Her heart was pounding at his words. Bone-white knuckles ached, as her hands balled into fists.

                        Suddenly, the scene changed around her. The black sky was dotted with stars, and ribbons of colorful light danced past her reach. As Zerith stood, the crunch of snow could be heard beneath her boots. Though the world around her was a frigid wasteland, she felt warmth flickering at her fingertips. A fire, and around it a great company of tents. An old woman, then, speaking into her ear:

                        “Satherra, you cannot leave us in our great time of need. The Kurashan tribe mounts an attack at dawn, in full force. They will overtake us. Their strange powers, their dark powers, are like nothing we have ever encountered ever since our earliest beginnings. We need your strength, and your voice, to defeat them. And we will need you when we migrate south, to be our guiding light.”

                        Zerith had not opened her mouth, but Satherra spoke strongly. “I am going to defeat them. You speak the truth. They will overtake you. But not I. Gostir has—” The words felt foreign. Zerith, at last, realized that she was meant to witness this crucial moment in history. As important as it must have been, she could not help wanting to change it. Her possessed body emanated a dark energy. Satherra was about to do something that would forever mar her tribe’s opinion of her.

                        “He is evil! It is sinful enough that he taught you the Enemy’s magicks of the voice, but I fear he has corrupted your heart as well.” Satherra spun around to face the old woman sharply. “Please, come back to us. Pray among the Earth-Bones, to Snow-Mother and Ice-Father. They have borne you, and they will understand. Heal this rift in your heart by asking for their blessings and forgiveness.”

                        “Then why don’t _you_ understand, Clan-Mother? You hold them so high. You are their great communicator.” Satherra sneered, and inside her, Zerith winced. From all the stories she had heard, Satherra was a paragon of her people, not a cruel leader. What had lead her down to this path? “The will forgive me when I save their beloved people from barbarians. Make no mistake: I will return. When I do, the sun will rise crimson, as a sign that I have defeated the evil Kurashan. No matter what I must do, no matter my weapon, I _will_ be a guardian of the Tarakona people.”

                        Satherra took her shield and spear, running her fingers along their fine workings, and placed a few javelins inside the pack resting on her back. She turned again to the shaman, the forsaken one’s spear tip pressed against her bosom. “Will you try to stop me?”

                        The petite elder gazed into the great warrior’s eyes, no longer doubting her willingness to murder one of her own kind. With a sigh of finality, Clan-Mother Ohjavala receded. A crowd had begun to gather, standing in between the caravan of tents and watching the scene with grim faces.

                        “No,” Ohjavala said at last. “I will not stop you from giving up your future, and your people.”

                        Zerith shivered violently as a wave of terror washed over her. Satherra felt rage and disgust that no person should have been capable of.

                        “After all I have done for all of you, you make me a pariah? I am the chieftain’s daughter, higher than all of you. And you cast me out? Then perhaps I was never one of you to begin with,” The Tarakona woman decreed. She spun on her heels, raising the hood of her fur parka as she left her homeland and all that she had known.

                        “Where are you going, Satherra?” Zerith inquired. “And what has happened to you?”

                        As though she had heard her, Satherra began mumbling to herself.

                        “To him, I must go. And then the Kurashan. Destroying them will surely be enough to prove my worth to them.”

                        “Wait, hold it right there!” Zerith demanded, as Satherra continued to whisper incomprehensible phrases to herself. “You’re going to kill all of them? Every last one? Why not just wait and kill the warriors? Surely that’s more honorable than a massacre!”

                        “They were always against us…blocking our way to Forochel.” Zerith managed to make out among her inane ramblings. “They have been corrupted by the Enemy.”

                        “Then make an agreement with them!” Zerith shouted from the confines of the lost woman’s mind. “Right now, it seems more like _you_ have been corrupted. Gostir always said you were kind and gentle. What has caused this?” Satherra offered no more answers, as she trudged through the frozen lands towards a horizon of towering mountains.

                        “The Grey Mountains. Is that where Gostir is?” Zerith wondered, but she did not receive an answer. “Wonderful. Now you are not listening to me.”

                        Another mile was travelled, before Satherra stopped in her tracks to gaze up at the mountain before her. She could not see its peak, and Zerith did not see any caves that would suggest a dragon’s lair. Satherra, however, knew the way, rounding the side of the mountain and squeezing into a tight fissure. Eventually the path widened into a short tunnel that led to what Zerith believed was a wide cavern.

                        It must have been much, much warmer in there, because Satherra wiped her sweaty brow and removed her parka, as well as her weapons, setting them just inside the entrance. As Satherra turned to enter the cavern, Zerith felt all the ice melt from her heart. Satherra felt incredibly warm, like fire incarnate. Gostir must have definitely been there. Who else could cause such a change in the warrior?

                        And there he was, the leviathan. Sleeping upon a pile of relatively modest treasures, his scales were great treasures themselves. Above him, an enormous skylight that must have been his entrance sent rays of light down upon his body, shimmering his scales like the glitter of fresh snow. His plated armor reflected the jewel tones of his hoard as though each was a fragment of a mirror. Winged, despite being a cold-drake, he did not appear as devilish as his Long-worm cousins. Tendrils of smoke puffed from his nostrils with each great breath. With his mountainous size, he could have created all the winds of Middle Earth with his wings; rain with his tears; blizzards with his vapor breath; and squalls with his dread glance.

                        Zerith recalled something, then, just from gazing upon his true form: Once, after Gandalf had disappeared, Zerith had found an old book he had hidden away from her. It told much about dragons, and upon reading it, she found something rather peculiar. It said that the Queen of the Earth, the Vala Yavanna, might have created the cold-drakes, who were then corrupted by Morgoth to create an army of fire-breathing dragons. If this was so, then how did Gostir learn to breath fire, and who gifted him his wings?

                        There could only be one, Zerith thought, who could and would transform a drake in that manner. When Gostir had strayed too far by Sauron’s old lands, it had marked him as changed forever.

                        With a whisper of his voice, he opened his great blood red eye. To her surprise, it held no sign of annoyance or malice, as it had for her many times. The dragon raised his neck to its full height in a stretch before returning to lay his head before Satherra.

                        “Little one, you should not be here. With your people is where you should stay. I have given you all the guidance I can. What more can you ask of me?” Zerith could hardly recognize him. His voice was slow, as was common with dragonkind, but it was soft and left her in a pleasant daze.

                        Satherra knelt before him, placing her forehead upon his. “I only ask for your blessing to defeat the Kurashan. I will destroy them alone, and no Tarakona will die. This land will be cleansed of the Kurashan forever.”

                        Gostir raised his head suddenly and Satherra stumbled. “Cleansed? To best their warriors is a sign of strength. To best their women, children, and elders is a sign of weakness and amorality. Do not shed needless blood.”

                        “They are our eternal enemies.” Satherra snapped back. “We will never be at peace until every last one of them lies on a pyre.”

                        If patient could be used to describe a dragon, Gostir would be the epitome of it. Any dragon would have been furious at insolence, but Gostir merely looked down at the woman with a slight narrowing of his eyes. “War does not create peace, Satherra. It creates graves.”

                        “Better to let it happen then let them live. If you won’t help me further, then I will go without your help. I have everything I need to destroy them, regardless.”

                        The room chilled, and Gostir changed. Gone was his patience, any ounce of kindness. “I thought I taught you balance. The balance of mercy and justice, life and death, war and peace. Fire and frost, dark and light. Have you forgotten me?”

                        “You are a drake. Your ‘fire and frost’ has no balance. It destroys, and consumes all.” Satherra began to retreat back to the cavern entrance.

                        “Do not insult me,” the scaly beast warned. “Fire gives your people life when the frost chills their bones. Has my inner war meant nothing to you, human?” He began to extend his wings in preparation of flight.

                        Satherra scoffed, her face twisted and warped. “Your inner war only delays the inevitable. You cannot resist Morgoth’s influences forever. Besides, look at you!” She pointed to his flecked sails. “When you flew to the Ash Mountains, you let him touch you. The gifts of fire and flight were too tempting to remain pure, weren’t they? For all your ‘righteousness’, you are a deceiver.”

                        Gostir withered into a form Zerith recognized much more clearly. Her words had cast off his cloak, and illuminated his true colors.

                        “You speak only the truth, little one. I fear I have become too close to you. The influence that the Dark Lord has on me has touched you, too. You have become more dragonlike, in his image, than I. You hold all the characteristics that he wanted me to have. For that, I have failed everyone.”

                        Satherra began to laugh at the drake, a shrill, malign sound. “With each word, you sing in dissonance with your master, and stray further from the Valar and the Blessed Realm. Return to where he can mold you, and stay there.”

                        “It is you who has become astray. Goodbye, Satherra.” In one fluid movement, he was gone into the skies.

                        The cavern filled with cold, and Satherra collapsed upon his treasures. She shoved her face into the cold metals, inhaling their smells and desiring death for a brief moment.

                        A glint caught her eye. She crossed the pile of riches and plucked an opal Tarakona pendant with a silver chain from the pile. It had been her mother’s, given to her before she died, to wear when she was married. She had gifted it to Gostir, for she knew she would never wear it. Only now, did she realize the true significance of it being here.

                        She threw it at the cold stone wall with a scream. The opal dislodged from the pendant and disappeared among the clutter, but the rest was unharmed.

                        “I can still fix everything,” Satherra swore, shakily rising to her feet. She put her parka on and equipped her weapons. Zerith prayed.

 

-o-

 

                        Outside, a deadly snowstorm whirled, no doubt caused by Gostir’s sorrow. There was no sign of the dragon, but Satherra did not expect him to return.

                        Though the blizzard slowed her movement, Satherra was unfazed. Zerith was helpless and afraid. The warrior approached a lone Tarakona hunter’s camp. An elderly warrior and his grandson lay asleep in a hut, oblivious to the storm around them and about to visit them.

                        Silently, Satherra entered the hut, looking down at the two huddled together. The young boy, sensing something amiss, stirred. Tiredly rubbing his eyes, he let out a scream when he saw the shadowy figure looming over him.

                        The old man woke up then, too, and reached for the axe that lay at the bedside. In a flash, Satherra had already grabbed it.

                        “Do you have a horse? She asked simply.

                        The two nodded, unable to speak.

                        “Bring it to me, boy.” She commanded.

-o-

 

                        She cleaned the blood from her spear as she forced her mount to ride on in the frigid cold. Just as her steed could go no further, she made out light on the horizon. She left the horse to move more stealthily towards the camp.

                        “I was right. They brought the whole tribe.” Satherra exclaimed gleefully. The Kurashan had built a wooden wall around their camp, and it was clear they did not plan to leave. That was fine to Satherra, for if what she believed about herself was true, none of them would ever see the end of the snowstorm.

                        The Tarakona warrior knew that visibility was extremely limited in the weather, so she came close to being able to run her fingers down the encampment’s walls. Two guards stood as sentries in the high towers adjacent to the gate. It was quiet, save for the raging wind, so she could not detect if any other troubles lay before her.

                        Looking up at the two men, she withdrew a javelin. The wind would make it nearly impossible, but Satherra was confident. She stood from a crouching position, adjusted her posture, and put her full strength behind her throw.

                        Her first javelin pierced the left sentry in the shoulder, and the force and surprise was enough to send him falling backwards out of the tower. Not a deathblow, but she doubted he would be getting up.

                        Before the other could shout out for help, another javelin met its mark just below the ribs. He gurgled before collapsing.

                        A commotion began to rise up within the tribe’s walls, so she had lost the element of surprise and needed to act quickly. She made for the gate, but found that they had barred it from the inside. It was too tall for her to scale on her own, so she pulled out a rope from her pack, tied a loop, and lassoed it to one of the pointed wooden posts of the wall.

                        Satherra had never been agile, but she scaled the wall with relative ease. On the other side, an absolute firestorm had sparked. She would have to fight the whole tribe alone, unless some surrendered, which she doubted. Most of the guards were running groggily from sleep and drink to the entrance. She eliminated the two fastest with javelins coated in their comrades’ blood, and readied her shield and spear for the rest. They numbered a half dozen, but she hardly considered them to count fully, for a few were heavily inebriated. The Kurashan had an old tradition of brewing up strong and often toxic drinks to be consumed the right before a great battle. She did not want to even imagine what they did to their minds, but it was true that any who drank the brew behaved like wild animals, killing nearly anything in their sight.

                        Luckily, these men had only gorged themselves on revelry.

                        Her first opponent swung a heavy wooden club at her, far too slowly than he should have been. He received a spear thrust in the gut. The second and third must have been brothers, for they fought so close to each other she would have joked that they were conjoined. The taller stood behind the shorter, and both had their blades out. Satherra bashed the shorter man with her shield using all her fury. He stumbled back with force that his brother accidentally impaled him with sword. His shock and sorrow made him pause, and she finished the two off quickly.

                        In the daze of her bloodlust, she did not notice that the other three encircled her. The warrior behind her made a shallow slash on her thighs, and she fell to the ground with a cry, dropping her weapons. One managed to quickly kick them out of reach. Looking up at her attackers, their faces glowed like the facades of ghosts in the night. To them, without a weapon, her fate was sealed. But she tackled the one who had started to snicker at her misfortune, and it was her turn to laugh. As all of the Kurashan roused, a huge brawl began between one lone Tarakona warrior and a mighty legion.

-o-

 

                        A pile of dead lay at her feet. Soon, they would be honored in a great funeral pyre. She was bleeding from cuts in many places, with countless bruises, but Satherra was still standing and battle-ready.

                        Entering one of the Kurashan’s communal huts, the elderly, women, and children who had been sleeping now huddled into a corner, pleading with her. Their voices, to her, were like the constant buzzing of pests. If she were once again kind, and gentle, and could clearly recall the teachings of Gostir once more, she would have saved them all. They were malnourished, exhausted and shivering. Their sunken faces and wild eyes made them appear in the light to be little more than husks of what once were prosperous people. As she stared, the buzzing became unbearable. She took an unlit torch from the hut, lit it in the small fire in the middle of the home, and set everything ablaze before turning to leave. The buzzing turned to screams.

                        One by one, anything flammable was lit as the snowstorm ceased. She was grateful that it had stopped, because now she could see clearly across the camp. The Chieftain stood, flanked by his wife and two of the best the Kurashan had to offer, and watched as his people burned. She approached, and the two warriors did not raise their weapons.

                        “I was told that the Kurashan was sending all their people to fight the Tarakona. But I remember there being many more just a month ago, when you came to declare a so-called ‘eternal war’ on _my_ people. Don’t you recall that, Chieftain Miikka?”

                        “Yes,” the man stuttered, seeming to shrink before her. “Some of the tribe, however did not…agree with my decisions and split off to go to Forochel. Most of them were my best men. The Snow-Mother and Ice-Father truly have renounced us, for such loss of luck has never happened before in our history.”

                        Satherra directed a grimace at the husband and wife. “You have nobody to blame but yourselves. You exploit your people, make them pack up and move all of a sudden just to fight a war with a tribe that barely concerns you, while you sit comfortably on your bone thrones covered in warm pelts. While your people starve and freeze, you don’t even throw your table scraps on the snow for them to eat. You give it to your hounds. You cannot call them your people, when you do not treat them as though they are people.”

                        The wife took a step forward in front of her husband to defend him. “What reason do you have to criticize us, when you have not shown us mercy? You have slaughtered everyone like livestock. Where is the honor the Tarakona promised us?”

                        “Enough, please. Don’t say anything to provoke her further.” The chieftain begged. “You are right. We are wicked and corrupt. How can we be cleansed and returned to the gods’ light?” He begged, kneeling before her. His wife followed suit, albeit hesitantly, and the two warriors glanced between each other and their leaders anxiously.

                        “Tell your warriors to stand down.” Satherra said.

                        “If I do, will you let me go?” Chieftain Miikka asked.

                        “On my word, I will.” She vowed. The Chieftain studied her steeled face for a long while, before nodding to his warriors, who took several steps back to give the Tarakona a wide berth.

                        “Your sword is the make of an expert smith. Tell me its story.” Satherra redirected. The chieftain unsheathed it, presenting it to her. Her hands tightened on the grip, examining the fuller and etchings of the sacred blade.

                        “It has been passed down to the--“ The chieftain did not get a chance to finish the tale, for his head left his body. His wife screamed, clutching his body and shrieking.

                        “You said you would let us go!” She wailed, rocking his body and covering herself with his blood.

                        “I fulfilled my promise.” Satherra responded grimly. “I cleansed him, so that he might be seen in all his essence at the foot of the Gods.” The guards made a move to attack, but she halted them, dropping the sword. “Correct me if my memory fails, but if a Kurashan leader falls in battle, do the guards not take their own lives, failing in their sacred and sworn duty as vassals to serve their chieftain until death?”

                        The three remaining Kurashan all looked at each other, before surrendering themselves to the fire.

 

-o-

 

Satherra stumbled home, breathing heavily as she hauled a heavy sack upon her back. She had addressed her wounds as best she could, but she was no healer. At last, she was home, standing before a great congregation of her people. They had been preparing for an inevitable battle, for they had not been informed that Satherra had gone alone.

There was her father, the chieftain of her tribe, who rose as she approached. All of the Tarakona slowly stood in silence with their leader, turning to stare at her with wide eyes. Next to her father, Clan-Mother Ohjavala kneeled, praying. She opened her eyes and looked with surprise at the young woman, before shaking her head and hobbling away. This did not change Satherra’s happy and boasting attitude.

“Friends!” She declared, setting the heavy sack down and grabbing something within its confines. “I come bearing great news!” She spilled the sack on the ground, letting the contents splay out. All the treasures of the Kurashan spilled for the tribe to see: priceless, glittering gems that rivaled the purity of ice; tomes from far-off lands obtained by trading with the Lossoth; weapons and armor of varying origins and races. Upon this hoard Satherra revealed her hand, which grasped the hair of a head—the decapitated one of Chieftain Miikka, to be precise. She placed it at the top of the pile, where it could gaze blankly at the tribe. A collective gasp rolled through her people, and fear, not pride, was reflected in their eyes.

“You, alone, defeated the Kurashan tribe, Satherra?” Her father asked.

“Yes. None of them still breathe, so we are safe.”

                        “Sir,” a Tarakona hunter approached, kneeling before the chieftain. “When I sent out scouts, one reported to me that the Kurashan camp was…burned to the ground.”

                        “Surely you could not be capable of such a thing, Satherra?” Her father gave her a worrying frown.

                        “What does that mean?” She asked.

                        “To take on the whole tribe alone…there were women, children, and the feeble among that camp…” The chieftain trailed off, shaking his head.

                        “Now, the Tarakona can live in peace, their enemies vanquished. It is as it should be.” Satherra said, although it came out as more of a question.

                        “It is time to leave, my son.” Clan-Mother Ohjavala returned, standing with the help of her walking stick. “While the storm has died down. Before any other tribe finds what has occurred.”

                        The Tarakona slowly began to walk away, gathering their things and loading items and people into large sleds and caravans. The horses were restless.

                        Satherra looked on, wondering why her victory was such a somber occasion.

                        _They wanted peace and happiness, but not mass murder, you idiot!_ Zerith thought as she continued to be trapped within Satherra’s mind.

                        The Tarakona Chieftain took his daughter by the shoulders, shaking her violently.

                        “What have you become? Gostir has left these lands, but he has left a monster. You gave up your life, your people, for him. And now you are lost. I do not know what force can bring you on the right path, for there is none that I know of so strong. You are banished.”  Satherra looked into her father’s tearful eyes, seeing no signs that he would change his mind.

                        She shoved him away from her, morphing into a vile serpent. “Banish _me_? Your own daughter and savior? I gave up everything for the Tarakona! And now you leave me, alone in these lands?” She cried out, tasting blood in her mouth. “Go, then. These are ancient Tarakona lands, and they will be mine if I am alone. Leave me with the ashes of your ancestors!”

                        The Tarakona people faded away, the sounds of their steps muffled by the shouts of the exile. She screamed until she tasted blood, and then collapsed in the snow and ruins of her people.

 

-o-

 

                        “Why did you show me that?” Zerith asked, panting. Her head pounded as a nauseous wave threatened to drown her.

                        The dragon landed before her, the force rocking her body back.

                        “All of her good deeds were lost to the memories of her hatred. The Tarakona hate her, and for your connection, you as well. Travelling with the man will only put your life in danger.”

                        “I am not like her.” Zerith struggled to catch her breath. “I would never let myself—“

                        “Do you not think she once said that? Swore upon her mother’s soul, among many other long-dead family members? Humans may promise many things and sell their souls to honesty, but keeping their word is truly impossible.”

                        “You corrupted her, didn’t you? The Dark Lord’s stain seeped onto her as well.” Zerith countered.

                        “Yes, but not intentionally.  After my hatching, I longed to explore the world as an adolescent. The humans fascinated me. The dwarves could not be convinced to stay their weapons. I found myself at the foot of where the Dark Lord’s whispers emanated, and I could not silence them. They changed me.”

                        “And then you came back, and taught Satherra.”

                        The drake seemed to nod, and blew out a great gust of air. “I shared with her all I observed about people, and of my kin. Fire breath, vapor breath. How to protect your soft belly without the diamond armor of dragons. She always wanted more, and I was happy. I was greedy.”

                        Zerith raised an eyebrow. “Well, all your kind are greedy by default. But how?”

                        “I wanted more attention. More of all the trust and mortal secrets she provided.”

                        “But you must have known more ‘mortal secrets’ than her, for you observed Men…”

                        Gostir leaned down, until she could feel his steamy breath upon her face. She felt scorched.

                        “Secrets of the heart.” She wished she did not understand what he meant.

                        “What is the greatest thing you have observed about Men?” She changed the subject, her face feeling warm.

                        “That they are weak and cannot be trusted.”

                        The world went black.

 

-o-

                    

          “Bad dream?” Hassun asked.

                        “No dreams came to me last night. I slept well.” She responded, putting on her leather armor and weapons.

                        “You nodded off while you stirred breakfast. Multiple times.” He recalled his observations.

                        “Maybe my eyes were just tired, and my head decided to tilt down to shield them from the sun.” She thought studiously. A pure sound she had not heard in a long while shook the trees and made Applegrabber’s head dart up: laughter.

                        “You are like a fox caught in a trap, trying to trick its way out of every situation. You are a terrible liar.”

                        “That doesn’t mean you have to record any and all of your thoughts about me out loud!” Zerith sighed, rubbing her temples. “Please, can we get on the road? The sooner we get to your people, the sooner our business will be concluded.” Hassun’s face faded, and she pretended not to see it.

                        “Yes, yes, woman.” She turned just as he threw his bedroll at her. Applegrabber trotted over, knocking over a pail of water resting on a tree stump and soaking the man’s boots. He slowly turned to the stallion, fury in his eyes.

                        “Such needless violence only wastes time, Hassun. And comes with unforeseen consequences.” She chided, choosing to pack up quickly and hop on to her mount before the Tarakona man got any ideas. “If you’re done wasting time, I’ll meet you on the Old South Road!” She waved as she flew with a splatter of mud.

 

-o-

 

                        “Do you know anything about the Dunlendings, Zerith?” Hassun asked, as Applegrabber slowed wearily. They had travelled many miles, but the warm sun and swelter of the enveloping trees began to wear down their prideful pace.

                        “They are similar to the Northmen. In fact, I believe I heard a rumor that they are related. They regularly feuded with Rohan, but after Orthanc was given to the White Wizard, they became more peaceful. He must have intimidated them.”

                        “Interesting. How do you know all of this?” The man asked, and she held back a sigh.

                        “The man who raised me taught me everything I know. History, the art of warfare, and also how to not get angry when someone asks frivolous questions.” Zerith quipped. _Sorry Hassun, but I’m beginning to think that Gostir is right._

                        He grunted, replying, “My apologies, then, if I have offended you. Although I do not know what I did.”

                        As though he sensed the abrupt change in mood, Applegrabber halted. _Great. Now I’ve created another confrontation. One of many, I guess. What else is new?_

                        “You and I are business partners and nothing more. Both of us have something that can benefit the other. I’ll help you with whatever the Tarakona demands of you, as long as you take me there. After that, we will hopefully be free from the company of one another.” She tried to keep her voice from wavering.

                        Hassun did not reply for a long while. The forest began to fade into grassland. They had reached the midpoint of the North-South Road, and so the Fords of Isen were near. She urged Applegrabber forward, and his vigor seemed renewed, for his canter was lively.

                        The sun had long set as they sat by their small campfire, nestled in the shadows of a rocky outcropping in the hills of the Enedwaith. Neither had said a word to each other, but the silence somehow felt deafening to Zerith. Just before sleep came to her, she heard Hassun mutter something, but it was lost in the hum of the night.

 

-o-

 

                        “We’re low on supplies. We used up both of our provisions a few days ago, and the lands surrounding this road have been meagre pickings. Perhaps we should rest in Rohan, and see what they have to offer.” Hassun brought up, just after they passed the Gap of Rohan. The pair had tried to distance themselves from the tall tower as quickly and quietly as they could; the sight chilled them, despite the inhabitance of a great Istari Wizard there, for reasons they did not understand. Now, they were in the Horse-Lords’ land, graced by the sun and the spirit of the people that lived there.

                        “I agree, however I’m not so certain I should go there with you. We would be better off surviving until Minas Tirith. I know it well, for it is where I was born. They buy and sell many things. It is a city of many faces and diverse lands. Not that Rohan is inferior, but I recall clearly the last time I was there.”

                        “When was that?” Hassun asked.

                        “A few years ago, when I got my scars. I was a child, and the lands had not been blessed with grain, and so they were in no mood for a mousy girl’s cries.” She replied quietly.

                        “Minas Tirith is far,” He thought out loud. She smiled without realizing it, glad that he had known to change the subject. “If you have need for anything specific in Edoras, ask and I shall keep an eye out after buying our needed goods.” He grew quiet for a moment as she grew still and quiet, and he watched her ebony strands flutter in the breeze as he waited for her response. “Is everything alright?

 

            She turned around as best she could to look him in the eye. The air seemed to grow still around them as he counted the freckles upon her nose in anticipation. When his face grew hot, he looked in her deep blue eyes again. They held a certain somberness that struck a chord in him.

            “Forgive me, I was thinking of my home. I am Gondorian by birth, and grew up in Minas Tirith until I was forced to leave. I left my mother behind, and an uncle who often gambled away our money. I do wonder how my mother fares, though. It’s been nearly a decade.” She frowned and the crinkle of her eyebrows aged her far beyond what he could ever expect. “We did not part on good terms.”

 

            Hassun let out a sigh and flashed a sympathetic look. “We will not make it to Minas Tirith without stopping in Edoras for supplies, but we can spare the time to go to Minas Tirith. You are right; they will have many more goods than Edoras, especially since I have heard that the seasons have not been fair here.” It was true; although golden grasses surrounded the hills in which the man and woman conversed, the crops had not been yielding enough as they once did to support what all across Middle Earth knew the Eorlingas to be. “I would like to meet with my companions in both cities to see if they have found any other mercenaries or adventurers. Our Clan-Mother’s task will be dangerous, and I have no doubt about that. I cannot promise you anything, not even your life. You need to reconnect with your mother.”

 

            For a while, she stared back at him in wonder. _Agreeable? Even caring? This is a start._ “I follow your lead. I am sworn to the task the Tarakona sent you across these lands on, as well as my own destiny. To Edoras, then? Perhaps we can even find you a new steed that might actually enjoy your company.” She grinned at him.

 

            He laughed and shook his head. She decided that she liked the sound. “The Valar themselves could oversee the breeding of horses,” Hassun began, “but no foal would ever grow to like me.”

 

            “You would be surprised how people can change if you give them enough time.” Zerith responded with a softened gaze. His dark eyes swam with confusion, but before he could fully process the weight of what she had said, she had already turned and urged Applegrabber forward through the sea of gold.

 

-o-

 

            Bay, black, white, blue roan, and dun all raised their heads as the travelers passed through waves of green and gold. Rohan was a land of a hundred farms and a hundred bushels of pride and honor. Its foundation were the horse-carved shields of its warriors, its beams the proud swords and spears with swift strikes, and its roof was the echoes of stars in the wind.

 

As Applegrabber cantered under the hot sun of the plains, Zerith shook her hair free of its confines. The plains were incredibly windy, and for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, she felt free. Her feet did not carry her to Edoras, nor did her spirit or will. Instead, the fair winds had brought her to these lands. Each farm or settlement they passed echoed with the solidarity of an unshakeable people. She recalled long ago when she had fled to Edoras as a child, and how easily the Rohirrim had shifted their gazes from soft to stony once her cries had upset their peaceful balance. Back then, it was easy to blame them for turning away a child. Now, she felt as though she could understood. Rohan was a land of a constant turning of wheels, bound by an endless cycle that reaped the fields and let the seeds of new harvests sail through the wind. When debris or a small rock would get stuck in the wheel, someone would have to remove it. The wheel could be broken, true, and possibly rebuilt with a more efficient design so that little could get stuck that would hamper its turning, but what would be the effects on the outside world, and on the people who relied on it for its steadfastness?

 

Zerith led Applegrabber to the side of Edoras’ walls where the grasses were long and nutritious. After Zerith and Hassun had dismounted, they rummaged through the saddlebags and their gear to take inventory of what they would need to last them at least most of the way to Lake-Town and Dale. After that, Zerith would have to be completely reliant on Hassun in terms of navigation. From the brief glimpses into Satherra’s life and the history of her people, she knew that the Tarakona had generally inhabited the areas north and east of the Withered Heath, but so much time had passed that no map could fully assure her she knew where they were going.

“Are you sure you don’t want to enter, Zerith? You’re far more social than I, and likely to get a better deal.” Hassun asked as he adjusted his gear and weapons. She noted how he fidgeted and shifted his weight as he stared expectantly at her.

 

“And I am also likely to get kicked out if anyone remembers me. I may be a grown woman now, but I still have my scars.” She gave him a sympathetic smile, knowing he was not eager to put on a friendly face for bartering. He looked away from her and nodded, rummaging through his pack for items he had brought from his homeland or on his travels to trade with. “I wish you good fortune. Just do not overthink it nor be your typical harsh self with the Rohirrim. They are not as flexible with their deals as we Gondorians tend to be.” She smiled.

 

Nodding fervently, Hassun turned towards the gates where the guards had begun to flash them wary looks as they spoke. “I will be out as soon as possible.” He assured with his back turned from her before trudging off to meet the guards’ scrutinies.

 

Zerith watched him for a while as he spoke to the guards of his intentions in the city, sometimes motioning over to where she stood. Though she could not see the guards’ faces ‘neath the shadow the wall cast, her lips turned upwards in amusement.

 

“He really has a way with people, does he not?” She asked Applegrabber, rubbing his velvety nose affectionately. Applegrabber huffed before rubbing his head against her arms. She assumed that meant ‘If you say so’.

 

Zerith quickly realized she had not planned on doing something to keep herself occupied during however long it took for Hassun to get over his dislike of crowds and social situations. She looked to where their supplies were all gathered, leaning against a boulder, and spotted the yew frame of her bow. She sincerely doubted she would ever be able to claim any significant prowess with marksmanship, but she would never give up on practicing. After carefully restringing her bow and searching for the practice arrows she still carried from during her training under Gandalf’s tutelage, she roamed around the grass for a sufficient target to practice on.

She settled on a thicker piece of round light wood that had been severed away from an old tree stump. Pulling out a bit of charcoal from her pack, she drew circles for practice parameters. It was awfully crude, but it complemented her awfully crude archery skill.

 

Drawing her bow, she was not at all surprised to find that her first arrow barely hit the target. It had been a while since she had drawn a bow, relying instead on the theoretical range of her dragon breath instead of the range a bow provided. The next dozen arrows were hardly better either, but still landed within the outermost circle. Something was clearly off, but after another dozen, she could not figure out the source of her poor aim.

 

An hour had passed before she had an idea. _Focus._ Often, she would catch herself focusing too much on the way the bow felt in her hands, the ache in her muscles, or the wiggle of her toes as her feet were firmly planted on the ground. There was only one thing that truly mattered to her when she held a bow in her hands though: where her arrow struck.

 

After this revelation, her next arrow hit the middle circle.

 

So did the next arrow.

 

The fifth arrow met the inner circle.

 

The eleventh pierced the very middle of the wood.

 

Never had she believed she would ever be able to truly discover her own strength in combat. She was a capable fighter by Gandalf’s teachings, but a _good_ one? An _exemplary_ one? Much of it would take actual practice in combat, but for now, she was happy to know that progress was truly possible. She wondered if she could attribute some of her skills to her ties to Satherra. She chillingly remembered how well-versed Satherra had been with her spear and javelin. She also recalled the _precision_ of Satherra’s fire breath. Was there also an aspect of _focus_ in the voice of dragon-kind?

 

There were several people around her in the fields and near the city, so she could not truly test her hypothesis. Still, she gazed back at where her arrow had split the very middle of the wood and _focused._ She imagined her flame consuming that one, infinitely small space. She felt the heat within her soul, throughout her entire being. Could she truly find _focus_ in destruction, and would she?

 

She lost it all in one moment. Again, she felt the burn on her fingers, the ache of her muscles after hours of practice, and the way her eyelids dropped with the suggestion of sleep. Returning her bow to its resting place, she left her arrows in the wood as a reminder of her strength and solidarity of her might when she next looked upon it. The dark-haired woman untied her fur cloak from her shoulders, spreading it down on the grass and kneeling on it. She removed her leather boots with lazy meticulousness and laid her head upon the fur collar of her cloak. She could not remember when her eyelids drooped for a final time, but she quickly dozed off beneath the shadow of the great Horse-peoples’ wall.

 

When the sun had begun to set and cast the sky in shades of fire, Hassun reappeared from the hurried confines of Edoras. He carried a few sacks of various food and other provisional goods, and gave a respectful nod to the guards of the city as he passed. He peered to where Zerith was waiting for him, but could only spot her voracious steed nibbling at the grasses and swishing his tail. The Tarakona man’s heart quickly twisted with worry as he began to walk briskly to where the pair had separated.

 

She lay among the verdant grasses, tucked into her warm cloak. Though still in her leather armor, her face held a peaceful serenity that he had never quite seen before. When she slept, she always looked troubled. Yet now, splayed out among the grasses of Rohan, she looked like she had never lived during a happier moment. Her dark hair was tangled yet he could only look at her dreaming eyes.

 

Hassun quietly set the supplies he had bought by the rest of their gear so as not to disturb the sleeping woman. He sat below Applegrabber’s flank and pulled out freshly-baked bread from his pocket alongside a crisp and shiny apple, chewing on the bread and thinking as he stared down at his traveling companion. He spotted a flash of brightness in his surroundings and looked up.

 

A circular piece of white wood was struck with numerous arrows and turned into a pin-cushion. The arrows were scattered in no particular fashion, but the one in the middle resonated above the others. A smile crept onto Hassun’s features as he looked back down on the girl. He felt warm breath upon his left shoulder as Applegrabber nudged his arm and stole the apple right from his hand. When he fell asleep after the sun had disappeared from the sky, he would dream of the middle arrow, a face full of stars, and the stretching feeling of a smile.

 

-o-

 

“ _Focus,_ Satherra. It is not enough to be able to produce fire, but to understand it and its nature. “ The silvery dragon gazed down at the young woman upon his throne of gold, each of his scales shimmering like a precious stone in their own right.

“I’m trying, Gostir, but I just...” Satherra sat cross-legged before him, close enough to feel the warmth radiate from his body in the chill of winter. “I cannot let go today. I see her face whenever I close my eyelids.” She grasped the opal pendant hanging around her neck, losing herself in the thousands of refracted colors. “She gave this to me to wear when I get married, but that will never happen. Now.” She squeezed the chain until she felt the links dig into her skin.

“You cannot know the future with certainty, Satherra.”

 

“No, but I can determine it.” She looked up to meet his crimson gaze. “My life will not exist for a hearthfire. It will not live on to love someone my father will choose for me, nor to bear children. It will not grow old and watch its legacy evolve. It will die amongst fire and blood, but it will _burn_.”  She felt the darkness surround her, and the icy blue from the skylight cooled her blood.

 

Gostir did not respond for a moment. He had listened, and now thought. When he spoke again, he had lowered his head to meet her downturned stare. “Is this what you determine for yourself, or what you perceive others to have forced you to choose?”

 

She looked upon him again. “No one will ever choose anything for me again. They killed my mother. Blood for blood. It is only fair that the ground be evenly seeped in life so that its crops prosper.”

 

“What happens to crops during a flood?” Gostir asked the Tarakona woman.

 

“They drown and get swept up among the tides.” She answered truthfully.

 

“Then take care you do not drown in the chaos you will sow, Satherra.” He advised. She was quiet for a long while before removing the pendant from her neck. She held it up to him for his scrutiny.

 

“I gift this to you, then. Another treasure for your hoard.” She smiled.

 

“Yes, but the most precious of all.” He responded warmly. “Now, _focus._ ”

 

-o-

 

When Zerith finally awoke, it was late in the morning and Hassun had already packed Applegrabber’s saddlebags for their journey to Minas Tirith. She had not seen him since he had entered Edoras, enjoying the long sleep as much as possible. Staring up at the sky, her eyes blurred for a few moments before she blinked away the haze of her sleepiness and sat up. Hassun was brushing Applegrabber’s flank and removing the knots from his mane and tail when her eyes focused on him.

“I’m glad you two are finally on good terms.” She started with a smile in her voice.

 

“If he’s to carry me the rest of the way, a little respect will be a great shield from his fiery nature. I cannot say I wonder where he got his nature from.” He turned to greet her, smirking at the blades of grass stuck in her hair after tossing and turning in her sleep. “Did the dragon visit you again?”

 

“Yes and no,” she replied, combing her hair with her fingers and straightening her clothes. “We did not meet face-to-face. Instead, he showed me a glimpse of the past, a conversation between Gostir and Satherra.”

 

“Was it a good dream then?” Hassun asked. “I can tell when you’ve witnessed something unpleasant. It speaks in your eyes and mood for the day.” He frowned.

 

“Better than the ones I have had in the past, but...” Zerith shut her eyes. _I can see her face whenever I close my eyelids. Focus..._ “I think it was when Satherra began to succumb to darkness.”

 

Hassun nodded, and she recognized he was trying his best to be understanding of her troubles. She hoped she could do the same, though she was far more chatty about her own issues than he was. What could the Tarakona man talk about in his distant world that she could understand? She cleaned off her cloak-blanket and tied it loosely around her shoulders. It was rather breezy in the morning, but she sensed fair winds would carry them forward on their journey.

 

“Shall we depart, Hassun?” Zerith inquired as she sheathed her weapons, longing to feel the wind in her hair again and the comfort of long roads. Her anxiety and eagerness to continue her own adventure caused her appetite to wane. She had not even bothered to check what Hassun had been able to find in Edoras, certain they would have more than enough time to discuss a myriad of topics on the road.

 

“Ready when you are.” He motioned, and she mounted Applegrabber, who looked more than pleased to find another human he actually could tolerate being in close proximity with. _About time, my friend._

 

After the two had settled upon their trusty steed, Zerith urged Applegrabber into a gallop, encouraging him to fly as fast as his legs could carry them. The dirt between the cobble of the road flew as they passed, and farmers, merchants, and citygoers halted on the edges as they passed.

“At this rate, we’re going to lose all the goods I traded for!” Hassun shouted at her above the thunder of Applegrabber’s hooves. Yet she did not reply, but stared on past Applegrabber’s neck to the ever-approaching horizon.

 

After a few hours of travelling, the roads turned to dirt, and the sun shone from gold to auburn through the trees of approaching Anorien. They stopped to rest their mount and stretch their legs before night grew heavy upon their travel. The two had no intention of reaching Minas Tirith exhausted, either. The towering city was a bit of a culture shock to many who had never travelled there before, and even Zerith knew she would have difficulty returning to the city of her birth. There were too many memories and far too much longing. Having been departed from it for so long, she considered herself a lady of the woods and open grasses, but confident in her ability to return to thriving in a city environment that would hopefully welcome her with open arms.

 

“I am going to bathe. My excitement grows with the thought of a more civilized Gondorian bathtub, but the Anduin shall have to do.” Zerith said as she stood from her seat on an overturned log. Hassun only gave a curt nod as he repaired the laces of his boots. Applegrabber followed her to the river. Her feet were heavy as she walked along the pebbled bank, before settling on a part of the river that was slow-moving and deep enough for her to get sufficiently clean enough in. When her father would take her out of the city to sleep among the stars for a few days, they would always splash in the Anduin before the sun fully arose.

 

Zerith undressed quickly, forever grateful for Applegrabber’s companionship, before wading into the water. She stopped where the cold but not harsh water lapped at her collarbone, and close enough to her equine friend in case she needed assistance. She had only spent a few minutes in bliss amongst the ripples before she spotted Hassun slowly approaching them. She suppressed a sigh.

 

“You always manage to catch me in my few moments of relaxation.” She remarked as she massaged her wet scalp.

 

“My apologies, but since you have not yet commented, I assumed I was so pungent from our travels that you could not even dare to inhale for a scolding. May I join you?” He asked hesitantly. _By the Valar, can I never have five minutes without this man haunting some aspect of my life?_

 

“The river’s long enough for two.” Zerith responded, before her face grew hot as she realized he too would have to undress. _Valar help me. Gandalf taught me about many things, but he surely would never broach these kinds of scenarios._ She turned away from him to allow him privacy, keeping her eyes focused on the trees on the other side of the bank. She tried to ignore the sounds of his movements. Any senses she indulged would only lead to a wandering mind.

 

“I know this is not the most comfortable of situations, but I think we would both prefer a few awkward moments in each others’ company rather than killing the citizens of Minas Tirith with our travel-borne odious auras.” Hassun joked. She could feel his presence close to her water, and slowly turned around to find that it did not feel as awkward as she expected. He too looked to be in the same state as her. All of a sudden, she burst with laughter.

 

“In some parts of the city, our stench would be an _improvement_.” Then it was Hassun’s turn to laugh, and Zerith found herself laughing along with him. They stayed in the water until their bodies were pruny, filling the time with absurd stories and daydreamings. It felt as though no time had passed at all.

 

They slept below the stars that night and Zerith was glad to awaken later in the morning to see Hassun was still asleep. The man always insisted on early risings and although she understood the appeal of getting on the road as soon as possible to cover ground, she was in desperate need of a long rest. The three travellers were greatly refreshed from their trip and Applegrabber felt faster than ever before as they rode.

 

“I spoke to another one of my tribe-members in Edoras. He was able to convince a few men to travel with him to our lands. I will seek out my kin in Minas Tirith as well while you are visiting with your mother and reacclimating if it is suitable.” Hassun began as they trotted through the fields of Anorien.

 

“Do you not know what task your Clan-Mother sent you out upon? I did not know you were trying to build some kind of militia.” Zerith replied.

 

“The night before my kin and I set out, we gathered around a fire and passed our guesses around. The best guess was that our chief is worried about potential conflict with the descendents of the Kurashan tribe. Relations with them have been strained ever since Satherra massacred them, but as of recently, things have been...different. We have all come to different conclusions as to what would motivate them to war with us.” She could hear the frown in his voice.

“And what was your conclusion?” Zerith asked hesitantly, feeling a chill upon her neck. Somehow, she knew.

 

He sighed. “Evil is rising, Zerith. Why else would you have been born now, with a dragon’s soul in you? Why else would the crops fail the Rohirrim for the first time in what seems like forever? Why would my own people be on the brink of despair, ostracised from the north and the Lossoth, as well as desperate enough to seek out outsiders for help?” She listened and stared ahead, seeing glimpses of white between scarlet boughs and grassy hills. She inhaled in anticipation of his answers to his largely rhetorical questions, and the floral aromas of her homelands filled her entire being. “I did not see it back then when I sought you out, but I do now. You were born to be a beacon of the future, of something more. I have not seen you interact with other people often, but from what I have been taught, Satherra was a greatly respected leader of our people. She roused tales of hope and inspiration, brought our people countless victories, and comforted us in our sorrows. This was all before she fell, of course. I wonder how much you are her, and she is you.

 

Are you just a woman with a dragon in her dreams and fire in her song, or is there something more lying in wait to be unfurled? None of us can truly say for certain that you will bring Middle Earth to its triumph or downfall, but the potential you have to change peoples’ lives is staggering. And your life is just beginning.”

 

Finally, they reached the crest of a large hill where the trees were pulled back. The sun shone down on the hilltop, and standing upon it, they stared in awe at Minas Tirith’s marbled countenance.

 

“And our ride is just about over.” Zerith smiled. She had listened to his words and stored them in the deepest part of her heart. It ached too much now to truly consider the depth behind what he had said.

 

“I have always meant to ask you about your family, and now seems the best time.”

 

She gave a nervous, rough-sounding laugh before clearing her throat with rapid eye-blinks. “My mother is a noblewoman living on the Fifth Level of the city, where most of the honored citizens of the city reside. Our house is one the southernmost side of the area, where the lush gardens are. My uncle lives with her too, unless he’s gotten them kicked out with all his gambling and outrageous pub games.” She did not even want to seriously consider that possibility.

 

“And your father?”

 

“He has passed away now. His name was Graywynd the Fearless. He was a mountain man, living on these very plains, hidden in the trees from the commonfolk. No one knows where he truly came from, and he never told me. Some say he was raised by the Druedain. When my mother was a young woman, she and her family were travelling to the Bay of Belfalas. They were ambushed by brigands on the road, but my father came to their aid and saved their lives.

My grandparents were so grateful that they went straight to the Steward of Gondor and the other nobles of the city and begged that he be honored as a hero. They took him in as a guard of the white city, though he could barely speak the Common Tongue. My mother took it upon herself to teach him, and they fell in love and married. As a young child, my father and I would spend hours in the library reading to each other, or out exploring the woods beyond the city.

He passed from an infection in one of his wounds a few years before I left Minas Tirith. After he was gone, everything changed. My mother began to rely heavily on my uncle for support. It nearly proved to be our undoing before she and I got things turned around and were able to support ourselves. That is, until the chaos I caused...” The woman sighed.

“She must miss you. You are her only child, and a mother never truly forgets their children.” Hassun replied sympathetically.

 

 _Anyone could want to forget a monster..._ Zerith thought.

 

-o-

 

Hassun and Zerith parted at the front gates. Hassun said that he was supposed to meet one of his kin on the ground level inside one of the taverns. He mumbled a name of some establishment on the Third Level that she had never heard of, but she assured him that they would easily be able to meet up soon enough. She made her way through the city upon Applegrabber and all at once was immersed in the life she had left behind.

A thousand kinds of men and women, with the children dancing between their strides passed her. Her head swam with a thousand voices, beckoning her to buy their freshly caught trout, their just-this-morning hunted elk, and of a plethora of spices, perfumes, and cloth. It was so easy to get lost in the sights of the great white city her heart had yearned for, but she had little time to waste. Applegrabber carried her on through each of the gates, and her eyes focused on his dark mane. She was almost afraid of looking up again at her home, for fear that she would never leave again. How could she? This was _her_ place that had been taken away from her by fate. As a child, she had countless dreams, plans, and agendas to look forward to when she grew older. It had all been swept away by fire.

Soon she reached the gardens marking the residential area of the level in which she had lived for so long. Applegrabber carried her without command, as though he knew the way to her heart. Her eyes looked up this time as she _knew._

She took in the site of her mother’s home: the black squarish stone that shaped countless memories, framed by finely-trimmed bushes dotted with small golden flowers. The mahogany wood door was so smooth and waxed, she longed to feel it if only for a moment. _Mother has touched it. Father has touched it. I am here, and I belong._ She stabled Applegrabber next to a silver mare she had never seen before. Captured in the awe and raw emotions of the moment, she felt numb to nearly everything but what was inside her as her feet reached the door.

Her calloused hands smoothed over the old, faultless wood. She wondered if she had ever burned it, but doubted it. She stood where those children had stood almost a decade ago before she had burned them. Looking down, there were no scorch marks. Nothing but light gray stone and bits of grass poking through to soak up the mighty sun.

Zerith raised her hand to knock, but her heart lurched. She pushed the door lightly, and it _opened_. It was unlocked for some reason. She gazed up at the windows dotting the framework of the house. Had her mother seen her? It had been eerily quiet.

She turned around. No one. She pushed the door open an inch more. She stuck the toe of her boot in the margin. Nothing.

Pushing the door fully open, she entered the foyer as silently as she could, closing the door gently behind her.

“Hello?” She called. Zerith stilled. _Scraaape...._ A sound of movement to her left, where the drawing room was. Her fingers met the emerald green walls of the house’s entrance, and she trailed her fingertips along it as she turned the corner. There was more movement again.

Now standing in one of the open receiving rooms, she noticed how the wood floor had been scratched by something. Whatever had damaged it had been large. The sparse furniture was extremely disheveled. A cabinet was crooked, a table had been shoved into one corner harshly, and the expensive paintings she remembered staring at for hours as a child were frowning at her when the once grinned. Her feet were quicker than her brain and she raced to the drawing room, turning the door handle.

 _Steel gray._ Her feet immediately met something hard, and as she looked down, the strength nearly completely left her knees. Her uncle’s body was slumped on the ground, his throat slit and open, pouring red onto the floor. His pale eyes stared up lifelessly at her. His body had already turned pallid, but somehow she knew he was _fresh._ The blood had matted his mustache and beard. There were cuts on his scalp between the patches of his thinning hair.

Every thought or feeling left her body in that instant. There was nothing left in the room. Her eyes burned but she could not close or move them. She was trapped.

Her head darted up as she heard the muffled yell. In the corner of the drawing room, her mother sat slumped in a chair. A cloth silenced her mouth but not her eyes, whose golden gaze leaked with tears. Her arms had been tied back to the chair but she saw that they were stained with blood. Her pretty blue gown was touched with crimson. _Run._ She could think no thoughts other than what echoed in her mind from somewhere far beyond her.

“You are an easy little rat to be caught in such a trap. Trying to pretend you’re as mighty as a dragon has sadly caught up to you, my heart.” The door gently locked behind her and she whipped around, armed immediately with her shortsword.

The man’s face -- if you could even call it that -- was horrifically scarred from burns. It had melted his scalp and left no possibility of hair on his head. The right side of his face dripped down like candlewax, and there was no eye there. He was almost too tall -- in his ornate black tunic and pants, he towered over her even with his back to the door. They were not the only ones in the room, however. Several more appeared from behind the disarray of desks and benches. A red haired woman with missing fingers, a jeweled man with a leathery neck, and several others that were armed to the teeth but with no visible scars.

“Who are you?” She asked in a whisper. She would regret it. It would have been better to simply speak fire instead, but she was consumed by sheer horror, not rage.

“We,” he gestured towards his companions who slowly stepped towards her, “are the Unscathed. You burned us long ago, but you did not harm us. You made us stronger. Since then, we have been watching and waiting.” The man’s laugh cut through her bones, and her mother’s whimpers grew louder. “All of this, just for you. And now that we have you, we will _savour this moment.”_

In an instant, strong arms locked around her head and legs straddled her sides. Her sword was knocked from her grasp as she struggled against her inescapable fate. A cloth was wrapped around her mouth but still she fought with every ounce of strength she could muster. It did not matter though. The wheel kept turning and she was shoved upon it. The last thing she remembered was her mother’s pleading cry.

 


	8. The Last Legacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: attempted sexual assault, violence
> 
> This is where the fic begins to turn dark.

Chapter Eight: The Last Legacy

 

A sack was thrown over her head and tied tightly around her neck as the man attempting to keep her still fought her thrashings. Eventually her knees were kicked and she fell with a suppressed cry of pain. She could hear the dim laughter echoing all around her as she was dragged by her feet out of the room.

 

      _Valar, I feel pathetic._ Her mind was frantically racing with some sort of solution or escape, but there was none to be found. She could not breathe fire. She could not yell for help. She could not move her arms or hands enough to be able to free herself. Zerith felt like a ragdoll as she was dragged from the drawing room to some other room in the house. Her only hope was that it seemed like whoever was dragging her was alone. Was there some way she could gain an advantage against him?

 

      Her captor let go of her legs and they slammed onto the ground. Then he was on top of her, yanking at her neck and finally ripping the sack off of her. Just as soon as it was removed, a gnarled hand replaced it at her throat, cutting off most of her air supply. She stared up into dingy brown bloodshot eyes. She knew this man from a long time ago. She must have known them all. They had been those poor children she had burnt...and now she was the poor one. But this one was different.

 

      “He told me you shouldn’t see my face,” But she did see his face. It was creased with scars and wrinkles, dirty with blood and a strange substance. His hair was straggly around his nape and his breath was musty with alcohol and fish. “But I want you to remember me until you die, so you can _beg me._ Don’t you recognize me?” He chuckled as she shook her head and tightened his grip. His other hand had begun to work its way underneath her leather armor. She felt him upon her skin and stars danced before her eyes.

 

      “All those years ago, I was a guard just as your father had been.” He began to search for the lacings of her breeches. Her feet began to move and she searched for _any_ leverage against him. “I heard the screams of those children. Watched as they nearly burned alive. And I was the one who had to take care of it. I saw your little scrawny body flee and I knew from that day on that I would go to any length just to find you and teach you the pain they felt.” He had found the laces. She kicked her legs up, hitting him hard in his upper back. He cursed at her and swayed but was unfazed otherwise. The hand tightened on her throat and he laughed.

 

      “They said you had a dragon in you, but I just don’t see it. Trust me, though,” He pulled down her breeches and she felt the cold chill of the air sting her bare skin. With his weight, she could hardly move. “I _will_ find it one way or another. We have all the time in the world.” Then he was _touching_ her, his hand thumbing her smallclothes casually as if they were pages in a book.

 

      _Nienna, please..._ She cried out and bit her tongue to keep from giving him any pleasure in her defilement. _Don’t let this happen to me..._ She squeezed her eyes shut and strained against her rope bindings as hard as she could. They budged a fraction of what she would need to break free. She could barely breathe now. His hand on her throat had only grown tighter as his other hand moved to his pants.

 

      She strained again, tasting blood in her mouth. He moaned with the anticipation of pleasure. She felt his body press against her tighter. She strained again. Her eyes saw darkness and her ears caught the sound of his pants sliding to the floor. His hand squeezed her hip. Zerith lost all control of the time and her surroundings. The frantic racing of her heart echoed in her mind. She felt a hard warmth pressing against the inside of her thigh.

 

      _Gostir..._ Perhaps she should have let him take control of her long ago. Would being controlled by Melkor be better than by the horrid vices of men?

 

She pushed again and with strength that was not her own, the rope came unbound from her hands. She felt as though she had been lit on fire. The man looked up from his prize just as her fist met his face. He flew back and hit the wall with a cry of pain.

 

Removing the bit from her mouth, she sucked in as much air as her lungs could hold. Her hands searched for something, _anything_ that could be used as a weapon. The cold metal of a butter knife lay cradled in her touch as she turned her attention to the hunched man on the floor. He was holding his face and shaking. The man looked up at her but she was quicker.

 

Shoving him onto his back, she straddled him and her hand found his neck, crushing it with inhuman strength. The silver sheen of the knife shone above his face.

 

“There is no dragon inside of me. I _am_ the dragon.” Zerith smirked, and plunged her silver down into the man’s eye. His scream made her shiver with longing as she withdrew the knife and went for his other weeping eye.

 

Again, and again, the blade turned his face into nothingness. Her blood had been ignited. As quickly as it had been lit, the flame was snuffed out and she pushed herself away from the man’s corpse. Bile rose to her throat as her shaking hands dropped the knife, only to be covered in slick crimson themselves. _That was not me. It could not have been me._ But she had killed him. He had tried to defile her but she killed him. _More than killed him...I butchered him._ All the strength left her. For what seemed like an eternity, she stared at his body at the floor and the blood drying on her hands.

 

She felt paralyzed. Rather, she did not want to move. Her legs could not find any motion.

 

Wiping her hands on the man’s clothing, she began to clean the butter knife. She searched the man’s person and found no weapons on him, so it was her best chance at freeing herself and her mother. Leaning heavily on the wall for support, she stood.

 

A quick look around confirmed that she was in the kitchens. Zerith listened for a moment, but heard only the sounds of rain and lightning flashing throughout the house. The windows in the kitchens had been boarded up, but she saw glimmers of hope in the cracks the wood had failed to cover.

 

She quickly and quietly crept back to the drawing room through a series of barren hallways. These hallways once displayed the portraits of her mother’s ancestors. The soldiers, the scholars, the writers and the mothers and daughters alike all filled the house with care and love once. Nothing remained of her family’s legacy except for the blood running through her veins. She was the last.

 

At each intersection of a room connected to the hallway, Zerith would stop and listen for any movement. If nothing was heard, she would peek into each room to see if any of the Unscathed lingered. Strangely, they seemed to have disappeared. Perhaps they were still in the drawing room with her mother, but there might have been much more to gain from searching the house. Money, weapons, and countless other precious items would greatly benefit the renegades.

 

Only a few lengths away from the drawing room, the soft whimpering of her mother could be heard. The door to the drawing room had been left open, thrown back as though its occupants were in a hurry. She clutched her knife tightly and reentered the room. She remembered to stop before her boots hit the flesh of her ravaged uncle. This time, she could not bear to look at him. It was her mother that held all of her attention.

 

Still bound to the chair and gagged, Zerith’s mother’s dress had been utterly ruined by her weeping lifeblood. Blood poured from her abdomen where she had long labored to carry her beloved child, a babe of the stars and all the goodness she had ever seen in the world. She had been stabbed multiple times, but it did not ache greater than the thought of how much she had lost.

 

Faendes had always been loyal to her family first, and herself second. There were only two times she had broken that rule: the first had turned out greater than she could have ever hoped, and the last had doomed her to death. She should have known that falling in love with the strangest of men could only breed the strangest of children.

 

In her daughter’s eyes she always saw him. His eyes, once gazing up at the stars for navigation or in the streams of Anorien were reflected in her own. She felt him whenever she grasped her little daugher’s hand. Strength and conviction flexed in those tiny fingers, and her dark hair had always been as wild and unkempt as her husband’s. Zerith was nothing like the auburn-haired, green eyed nobles her family was known for. Zerith had always been one to stand out for both good and bad reasons.

 

She could see how she had so easily fallen in love with Graywynd just by looking at Zerith. She was the spitting image of him both in appearance and personality. She preferred to watch him train with the other guards of the city before she would ever sit and read a book with her mother. She played in the dirt with all the other young boys of noble birth. She had ruined countless dresses on her destinationless adventures on the outskirts of the city.

 

It had exasperated Faendes once, but she grew to love it. Like father, like daughter. In every step, Zerith held a stride of fearlessness. She never seemed too uncomfortable in a room of disapproval. Sometimes when Faendes blinked, she could see a part of herself. It was her diligence and careful weight of decisions and compassion for people that Zerith seemed to always exemplify.

 

Countless milestones in Zerith’s life had passed without a mother to guide her. Faendes never saw her reach womanhood, nor did she get to teach her about what it meant to be of the Race of Men. She longed to have been able to see how Zerith had grown to be the person she was destined to be. Instead, Zerith’s mother would never see her daughter love and marry like she had. She would never see who she would become. If Zerith had been destined to be the most brutish, bloodiest warrior Middle Earth would ever know, Faendes would be glad for it. But still she would never see it come to fruition.

 

Looking up, Faendes thought she saw her husband’s warm gaze pass through her. When she blinked again, it was only the tear-filled visage of her only daughter.

 

Zerith tore away her gag and used it to press against her mother’s wounds, working with her other hand to free her hands.

 

“Zerith, my beloved.” Her mother beckoned, but the child did not look up. “There has never been a moment in my life where I did not love you. I have caused so much hurt and pain upon you out of my own fear. I hope you forgive me for that, one day. Now, I only can give you my love.” Her bonds were cut, and Faendes fell forward heavily upon Zerith. She wrapped her arms around her daughter’s neck.

 

Staring into those glossy dark eyes, past the scars and the tangled shadowy hair, Faendes saw and understood.

 

“You are your father’s daughter, but you are also mine. Never forget the legacies we have placed upon you to carry. If your destiny lies with dragons, go fly on the wind. But always know that you were loved, are loved, and forever will be loved by us and the people you touch.” Her breaths grew labored.

 

Zerith watched as the bronze dulled in her hair. The green began to turn to nothingness. Her mother looked down at the hands that were still pressed upon her abdomen and slowly lowered them to Zerith’s lap. She turned her head towards one of the cabinets shoved below a window in the room and pointed. The mother and her child exchanged one final look.

 

Zerith stood on shaky legs and pulled the cabinet drawers open only to find each empty. She looked back at her mother whose russet hair shaded her face. Staring at the cabinet for a moment, she moved it out from the wall. A clanging echoed on the surface of the wood floor.

 

Behind the cabinet was a large pointed shield, painted all in white. Its main motif was the silhouette of a silver wing, with a black outline of a tree gracing the bottom of the shield. As Zerith gingerly picked it up, she traced her fingers along the dark inner wood that made up the sturdy aegis. The grip was well-worn, and fit her fingers well.

 

At her feet lay a longsword in its sheath, the peeking silver of its length glowing amongst the darkness. A shiver coursed through her body as she pulled it from the leather scabbard and belt embellished with steel.

 

The grip of the sword like the shield was well worn and fit comfortably in her hand. The sword’s point was fine and the blade was well-sharpened. Its hilt was grooved in a spiral-like pattern and the guard was formed from pointed silvery feathers. A smooth moonstone made up the pommel. It had clearly been well used for she could see the tracest imperfections along its edge, but its decoration meant that the owner had been regarded highly.

 

“Father’s shield...and Foe’s Folly.” Zerith whispered to herself as she held the matching sword and shield lightly, contemplating the weights in her hands. She fastened the sword’s belt and scabbard around her waist where her old sword had rested. She would have to find some way to rest the shield upon her back, but it felt like it had been meant for her in the way it felt and moved through the air.

 

She turned her head slightly to see her mother’s slumped form barely resting in the chair. Zerith’s feet made the shortest of movements towards where her mother’s body rested. Kneeling to look into her eyes, she saw only dead green orbs that would never see again. The blood weeped no longer, so she did.

 

It seemed like an eternity had passed in these past few hours. And an eternity had passed as her tears dripped down her freckled cheeks, wetting her tangled hair. She made no sound.

 

A floorboard creaked behind her, and she turned too slowly only to have strong arms wrap around her shoulders and hands that covered her mouth envelop her. She struggled to turn slightly more so that she could brandish her sword.

 

“Easy, easy, Zerith. It’s me, Hassun.” Zerith struggled a bit more before she fell to her knees. He fell with her, if only to keep her from hurting herself with a sword in her hand. She felt his hands clutch her wrists and Hassun slowly turned her around.

 

They stared at each other for a long while, seeing only a stranger in both of their visages. She noticed how sweat dripped from his brow, and the parts of his undershirt, tunic, and pants that had been cut by someone’s blade, leaking his own blood and mixing with the blood of her family. The sword on his hip was caked in dried blood. She did not see his normal rucksack nor his bow, and he was dreadfully barren of any hope she thought he could give to her. Zerith believed he saw little more in her.

 

“We need to leave the city now. Applegrabber is ready and waiting outside. My kin, some mercenaries from the city, and I came here to get you, but we saw the strange men and women exiting the house. We engaged in combat with them and my kin and his contacts managed to chase them off through the lower Levels. Whoever those people were, they started a fire that called the guards’ attention before you visited your mother. After they retreated, they set off another catastrophy to mask their escape. As soon as I had a moment, I ran to find you.” Hassun explained exasperatedly.

 

Zerith did not respond, staring forward past his shoulders. His eyes slowly reached the floor and when he saw the two lifeless bodies, he looked back up at her, grasping her shoulders firmly.

 

“Whatever you are thinking, I promise you, we will make them pay for what they have done to you. But we cannot stay here much longer. You are not safe.” He shook her lightly, attempting to break her out of her trance.

 

She belonged to this room, to the dead. She belonged in the blood that had been spilt for her. She was drowning in it. All the steel in the world cut into her skin like frigid needles. She was dead.

 

Hassun peeled the sword away from her fingers and sheathed it at her hip before throwing her over his shoulder as though she weighed nothing, resting his hands along the back of her thighs securely. Her hand held the shield in a death-like grip across his shoulder, and as he quickly left the home, she struggled to keep her eyes open. She wanted to remember every detail of her home, without all the bloodshed and death. But it would always be stained with the memories of horror. She closed her eyes.

 

Hassun led her outside to where her bay horse was anxiously fidgeting in the shelter of the stall from the thunderstorm. As soon as he saw the two people approach he nodded his head in eagerness and met them in the downpour.

 

The Tarakona man took Zerith’s shield and quickly fastened it to one of Applegrabber’s saddlebags before hoisting the woman up in the darkness if the storm. She did not move or adjust how she was seated, even as he mounted the horse behind her and clutched her tightly with one hand, holding the reins with the other. He sped Applegrabber down through the great city, passing blazes of flames and the wails of innocent people. As he glanced down at the young woman who seemed lifeless in his arms, he came to a chilling realization.

 

Both times that Zerith left Minas Tirith, she left the city in flames.

 

-o-

 

Zerith saw the world in flashes of green and gray. She drifted in and out of consciousness for most of their journey until Hassun stopped for a rest. He lifted her from her mount and she heard him wince. She pressed her face into Applegrabber’s flank. That sound made tears well up in her eyes as her heart clenched.

 

“You’re hurt.” She started, barely being able to squeak out short words. It was as though she hadn’t spoken in years. “Let me help you.” Her voice sounded like it had been crushed in a mortar and pestle and left to crystallize in the cold bowl all alone. When she slowly turned, she saw that he had begun a small fire beneath the canopy of trees’ oppressing darkness. He sat down before it slowly, his face twisting with each movement. For a while, he stared into the fire, and she could see his body shaking from pain and exhaustion.

 

She took bits of cloth, healing herbs and poultices, as well as her waterskin and slowly crept towards him. The items shook in her hands as she kneeled by the fire’s warmth, taking in the extent of his injuries.

 

He had a nasty-looking gash that still bled on his knee, and she quickly removed his boot and rolled up his pant leg, not caring if his stare bore a hole through her head, nor if he thought anything of her. She cleaned and dressed each of his wounds as best as her ability allowed her to. The stubborn man would do not of it for himself, fretting over her. It was her fault that he had been hurt, anyways. Her throat tightened as tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them back and finished her work.

 

When she was done, she turned from him and her ears caught the sound of roaring water somewhere far in the distance. She realized that he had brought her close to the Falls of Rauros, the last time that they would meet in Anduin along their journey. She followed the sound until she met the edge of a stream lined with smooth grey pebbles. She washed her hands in the fast-flowing water and stood at its threshold, listening and watching.

 

She hoped she would have found something that made her _feel_ again, but there was nothing.

 

She laid on her back in the pebbles, feeling and studying every place they dug into her body. Every place they made her ache or twist away was a reminder that she was utterly empty on the inside. She laid on her back and stared up at the endless blue, unblinking.

 

The soft sounds of motion to her left did nothing to break her out of her trance, but the nickering did.

 

“Go away,” she whispered, turning her back to her horse and staring down at the stream. Applegrabber began to nudge her side towards him, but she did not move. He gave up after a while, and slowly---more hesitant than the spitfire of a horse had ever been---laid next to her and puffed a great gust of air. Warmth radiated from his body and her back pressed into him, but she still felt none of the warmth or love that she had once rejoiced in.

 

It was an eternity that passed in between each time she blinked. Her eyes burned in the sun, and she closed them in finality.

 

-o-

 

      “ _Strength_ , Satherra. It is not enough to land a blow, but to progress on your own path.” The great silver dragon declared as he rested upon a great precipice above the sound of clattering shields and spears.

      A small girl of dark hair and skin was sparring with a boy whose features matched her own. She looked to be no older than twelve, but her stance made her appear larger than her slim frame.

      The boy lunged with his spear towards her middle and she jumped back, readying her shield in a more defensive stance than she enjoyed. Her eyes never lingered from the boy’s and her wore a small smile.

      The two children danced around each other’s blows, neither gaining any ground. Satherra grew impatient; the two had been sparring for hours under Gostir’s watchful gaze. He had barely said a word to them, and only peered down with a blood-red gaze whenever they would look up to him for approval.

      Satherra looked up at his great grey silhouette shining in the sun just as the boy’s spear bit into her hip. She cried out in pain and whipped around to face him, her hand going to where he had hit her. Luckily they were only training weapons, but it would leave a large bruise. Her face scrunched up into a look of pure bloodrage, and the boy’s eyes widened as he backed away.

      She used all her weight to slam into him using her shield-arm, knocking him to the ground as his spear rolled away from his hand. She stepped on his arm to keep him from reaching for it and she relished the tears that formed in his chocolate brown eyes. Her spear pressed into his quavering neck. Again, she turned to look to Gostir for his approval, beaming at her apparent victory.

      Her win had been called too quickly, for just as she had begun to relax her posture, the boy pulled his arm away from her foot and knocked her spear away, lunging at her form and wrestling her into the ground. Her shield and spear slipped from her grasp and she landed on her back with a dizzy spin, staring up at frantic eyes.

      The two tried furiously to land any blow they could at each other, their nails scratching each other’s palms as they rocked amongst the frozen soil. Satherra began to feel the embers of a fire ignite in her belly, and tried to writhe away from the feeling. But it grew as she grew more and more frustrated with the stupid boy above her. Didn’t he _see_ that she was superior over him? She was the chieftain’s daughter, and the best fledgling warrior of the Tarakona. She would be trained by the dragon, and no one else. The fire built until she could no longer contain it and it boiled over.

      Suddenly, her nails bore into the boy’s wrists and she let out a scream of pure fury.

      The dragon roared from behind the pair, drifting effortlessly from his peak to hover over the children like a mountain.

      “Enough,” he growled, tiny tendrils of smoke cascading from his nostrils into the cold morning air.

      The children halted in their roughhousing immediately. The boy scrambled off of Satherra as best he could, and took one look at her before running back to the clan’s encampment. The young girl watched him with wide brown eyes as he fled, slowly closing her mouth. Again, she turned to Gostir.

      “I did not mean for that to happen. I just...felt a _fire_ inside of me that would not let him win. It would not let my better judgement win, either. I do not know how I could have let myself...” She shook her head and looked at her feet.

      The dragon lowered his head, setting his enormous red eyes upon her own. When she lifted her head, she saw the same somberness and worry she felt reflected in those scarlet pools.

      “I feared that this might happen to one of your Tarakona that came under my wing. I am a dragon though I am far different from most of my kind, and dragons are dangerous. Dragons have more influence in the world than many know. And I am one of the last that can see past the fire for even a brief moment, the same fire that consumed you and consumed many of my lesser brethren as well as the noteworthy.” He looked to the beginnings of icy white clouds in the sky, raising his leathery slate-shaded wings in a stretch that blocked out the sun for a moment.

      “Everyone left after a while, except for me.” Satherra muttered, knitting her small eyebrows together. “In the beginning, a lot of us saw hope in you. You tested us, and many gave up or changed their minds. But I’m still here. What does that mean?”

      He looked down at her, his posture tense as his front legs gripped the rocky cliff with splayed razor-sharp claws. “It means what you will it to mean. It is true that I have tested your people. Ever since I first came across humans and learned to empathize with them, I have desired to teach them more about the world than they could discover themselves. I believe you could be the harbinger of that. But everything has a cost.” His scales seemed to dim from silver in color to a tarnished grey as he spoke.

      “Tell me what you want me to do.” She replied, standing firmly on the ground, her spear and shield in hand.

      “If the fire within you is as you say it is, you can weild it as a weapon. But a good warrior knows that there are many different kinds of weapons for many different kinds of uses. Let us see if you are able to weild the first and most important aspect of fire. Close your eyes and focus on what you feel, as well as what you feel around you. Use your fire and strength to find me again, and only then will I allow you to truly understand what it means to weild fire.” He lifted his wings as far as he could, and she instinctively kneeled steadily on the ground to keep from being shaken up by the gusts his wings produced.

      She stared up at the glittering beast and wondered if any larger dragon could truly exist. Could any being or object even compare to his size? The Grey Mountains were far vaster than any being she could imagine in her limited knowledge, but seeing Gostir fly and cast a shadow over the majority of a mountain in just a wingflap’s time made her wonder in awe about what lay beyond the boundaries of her home.

      Satherra remembered distinctly when Gostir had first come to her people. He had flown over the Grey Mountains until the green grasses below him turned into hard-packed white. Her people were prosperous, with one of the largest semi-permanent encampments in the North. The dragon had easily spotted them as he descended, but so too had the Tarakona. When he came in range, they loosed arrows and spears upon him, but he shrugged off many and even more simply bounced off of his steel scales. He landed in front of them in a great cloud of dust, and after a while of realizing he was not attacking, they halted their defence. He spoke to them a great while about the world and all he had done, and promised himself to aid them in order to better their people. It had only been two years ago, and she still remembered how her face felt light as she observed in awe.

      With one swift motion, Gostir launched himself into the air, soaring among the crisp air. She watched the way his long spiked tail drifted fluidly in the wind as he flew before closing her eyes. It felt like an eternity before she no longer heard the sound of him soaring through the air, or felt the warmth comfort of his presence, or smelled his faint metallic musty scent upon the wind. As soon as he had drifted away from her almost entirely, she concentrated on her fire.

      Her fire inside felt like all of her anxieties and anger bundled into one. Satherra could not understand how he meant it could be anything other than all-consuming. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. There was something lingering in her belly; almost a want, almost a need, and it felt a little bit like hope, and even love. Was this the fire he meant? It did not hurt like the flames did when she was wrestling with that boy. It was as comforting as a roaring fire in the deadliest of blizzards, or the coziness of thick blankets to warm your toes on a cold winter’s night.

      Satherra opened her eyes and looked off at the distance at the glowing huts and encampments of her people. The fire still warmed her even with her eyes open, but she closed them again obediently. Fire lit her surroundings in her darkness, and her body pointed in a direction, feet picking themselves off of the ground and taking as much distance as they could in each stride. All at once, she was off to chase a dragon, and a shaky promise of knowledge and what she saw as destiny.

      She felt the cold wetness of snowflakes drift and settle on her hair as she walked, but it was helpless against her flame. The winds blew harsh against her small frame as she ran, but did not extinguish fire that burned bright. She leapt over boulders and frozen streams with ease, and the flame burned on and on. It kept her warm as night and the temperature descended, and eased her aching muscles and hands which still gripped her spear and shield.

      If anyone was around to see her, she thought, they would think she was crazy. But she could feel his presence grow closer and deeper within her as she followed where the flame’s tip touched.

      Soon, her fingers touched the cold stone of a cavern entrance. She followed the path diligently with silent feet, knowing that she had to be close. She was warm but the cold on the outside began to seep into her and suck her fire away. As her tired feet began to drag slightly, she heard her footsteps echo along the cave walls. Running her hands along each twist and turn, her fingers soon met nothing.

      Satherra felt him before her, and she knew his eyes were closed too, for she could always feel the burn of his reddened stare upon her. The only thing she could hear were the sounds of melted ice dripping and Gostir’s slow, even breaths filling the cavern with the lullaby of dragons.

      They both opened their eyes at the same time, and red met brown.

      “It seems that my hopes were placed safely within you,” Gostir said softer than she had ever heard him, “for you have arrived safely and in a timely manner here in my home.” She took a moment to scan the immense living space. Gostir’s colossal frame rested upon a meagre pile of gems, priceless ores, weapons and armor of all sorts, and many oddities. She recognized many of the items from things the Tarakona had gifted to him, and Satherra inferred that the rest must have come from trades with other clans from Forodwaith. It truly was meagre for a dragon, and she shivered as she saw the sparse areas where his scales did not touch gilded hues.

      A skylight from above illuminated his features, and it must have also acted as his entrance, for she saw only two small tunnels on opposite sides of the entrance tunnels. The ground and cave walls were made up of dark stone, slate grey stone, as well as shining ice. The mountains were cold, but the heat that Gostir radiated made the cavern remind her of the Tarakona’s great hall with many roaring fires. She doubted she could ever feel a chill in his presence.

      “You said that if I were to prove myself to you, then you would show me how to use fire.” She kneeled before him, gazing up at the great beast in silent reverence.

      His scales seemed to glow brighter as he stretched his body and seemed to nod, backing slightly away from her.

      “In my travels, I have learned many things about the world’s magic as well as my Mother’s gifts. Though I was born a cold-drake, incapable of fire-breath or flight, I grew and wisened to the world. Let me give you a piece of the world greater than any mortal could long for.” He turned away from her towards a large golden plate leaning on the cave wall. She felt the air grow slightly colder as he inhaled. His neck began to glow red-hot in between his jeweled scales, and he exhaled a burst of fire with a deafening screech towards the plate. He seemed to be able to burn it forever. Then, all at once, it died away. The shape of the golden plate was no more, sunken and dripping on his other prizes. But he only looked at her, smoke billowing out of his nostrils, with a certain air of pride.

      “You want me to...do that?” Satherra stared up at him with wide eyes. “I’m not sure--”

      “You cannot even attempt to meet my prowess, but you can find your own fire.” He edged towards her slowly. “Remember the fire you felt when you fought with the boy. Feel its rage and fury, but never forget its danger, nor how fire can sometimes soothe more than scorch.” She could not truly comprehend his words, but she could try her best to match his technique. She sought out her own gold from his pile and he peered down at her, bouncing a small golden goblet towards her with his claw. Satherra flashed an anxious smile, looking back up to him and then training on the goblet.

      Could she truly burn it? _Would_ she? She inhaled, trying her best to focus on all he had said. She touched her throat absentmindedly, and doubted it glowed. Yet she felt a glowing _burn_ within her. She inhaled air until her lungs felt like they were going to burst, and then exhaled with all the force she could muster directly at the goblet.

      With a small squeak, she produced the tiniest stream of flame that Gostir had ever seen. The dragon _chuckled_ at her with a scratchy rumble that made her ears ache, and she frowned at him.

      “I have seen hatchlings do better. For all the fieryness and ferocity you project, you cannot _project_ fire well.” Gostir commented, looking rather disappointed and bored as he began to curl up on his treasures sleepily.

      “I was not born a dragon. I’m just a human girl, or did you forget that in all your _wisdom_?” Satherra retorted back with a high voice and knotted her eyebrows at him until her forehead hurt.

      “Your underestimation of your abilities will be your failure.” Gostir yawned, resting his head upon his forelegs and shielding his body with his wings. He said nothing else.

      Satherra sat silently, in shock of how little of a chance he gave her. _What exactly did he expect?_ She was a young girl, not even close to womanhood. She was not noble-born, nor an elleth, nor anyone of remote interest or talent to him. But she had passed all of his tests, except perhaps for this one, she surmised. Didn’t he _see?_ She would never be anything greater than a human but she could be a dragon too, if he’d let her prove her worth.

      Turning slightly towards him, her fire burned every ounce of her body. Her inhalation came much easier than the first time. Chocolate brown eyes trained on the center of his forehead, she _screamed._ The blaze burned on and on until she saw or heard nothing more than her fire.

      Feeling the intense change in warmth and possibly pain from the sensitive scales on his head, he immediately awoke and raised his head above the flames. He pushed her away from where her fire burned with his nose, and she fell on her back, the wind knocked out of her.

      “Just _what_ do you think you are doing, little one?” Gostir asked with a warning snarl. She stared up with him but held no fear.

      “I’m not a dragon but I will do anything to be as close to one as possible, if that is your wish. I will work harder than any human you have met. Whatever it is you wish to teach mankind, teach me so that I might be the bridge between our worlds.” Satherra declared, attempting to hold her ground with an enormous dragon mere inches from her body.

      All at once, Gostir’s mood changed again and he yawned. He returned to his sleeping position and closed his eyes. She waited, not daring to try what she had just done a second time.

      Finally, he said: “Very well. But you reap what you sow.” His voice was almost a whisper even being so close to her. She did not hear it bounce off the cave walls. Soon, his breathing was rhythmic and all was quiet. She felt cold.

      It would not be until many years from the day that Satherra would truly realize how she had condemned herself and her people. Gostir had never suspected how much the girl would reforge everything he sought to do in order to influence her people. The two had signed their lives away to each other with words of fire, never to be departed.

      Satherra counted the scales on the end of his nose until her eyes grew droopy, at a loss for what this would mean for her. After the last of the beams of the light above dimmed, she slowly crept towards the silver dragon, finally laying against his side and beneath the privacy of his wing. She slept.

-o-

      Zerith stared up at the blackness of a sky that never was or would be. She lay amongst long-decayed grasses and walked along deserted roads until she hear a distant roar from above. A hazy grey shape materialized above her, and all the strength left her legs.

      She could barely keep her head up, but she willed herself to watch the elegance of his wings flying through nothingness, and she dreamed to be able to see the silver in his scales shine in the sun. It would never be. His blood red eyes were locked upon her figure as soon as he came into range, and the beast landed many lengths away from her. He slowly moved towards her. Zerith’s body rocked slightly as the dirt jostled beneath her.

      Her eyes were trained on the ground and then all at once shut just as she could feel his warm breath.

      “Do you wish to be free?” He asked her quietly. _Free?_

      “From what?” Her voice was raw and broken, strained and monotone.

      “From all the perils and misfortune I have laid at your feet. Everything you have suffered, I have caused.” He replied.

      “I hurt innocent children. I was hurt as an innocent child. I am hurting. My mother and uncle were brutally murdered. Countless other people are probably dead because of me. Countless more people will die because of me. I push people away. None of these things can be blamed on you. You are greater than we mortals. So many concepts cannot be applied to you. Besides, there is no way for me---us--- to be free from each other. It is as you have said before. You need me. And I need you. Back in my mother’s home...I know it was you. You saved me from that man. I could not fight back. I was not strong enough. You give me strength, and life.

      If I could change everything, I would. But how could either of us attempt to assume that change would make anything better? All we know is what has happened thus far. You and I are at least somewhat alive. You are free from _him_ for most of the time, and you give me my fire and all that I am. Can we say that things could be better if we were apart? Perhaps. But would they be better?”

      Zerith’s blue eyes met his red orbs, and when she spoke again, she had all but lost her voice. “I need you. I feel like I’m fading away with each passing day. I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m not defined in this space, in this world. You said I should be _her,_ that I should be Satherra. But I can’t. I just...can’t.” She slowly rested her head on the top of his snout, burying her tears in the smoothness of his scales. Her hands stroked below each of his nostrils, and he felt cool to her touch. She heard his reply, though he did not speak it. _We are each other. Nothing more or less can be asked or expected of us._ He understood, and she understood.

 

-o-

 

      Zerith awoke to the bouncing of a horse between her legs, and quickly blinked the sleep from her eyes. She regretted it, because the sunlight streaming through the dark evergreen trees blurring past them nearly blinded her. Her hair flashed before her vision, and it smelled oddly of flowers. It was well-washed and clean. Where was she? A blinding pain shot through her forehead and she whimpered.

  A hand tightened around her midsection as the horse halted quickly beneath her.

 “Thank goodness you are awake, Zerith.” She heard a familiar voice call out behind her.

 “Hassun, how long have I been asleep?” Zerith asked, breaking into a coughing fit from her voice’s lack of use.

 

“A week,” He replied, dismounting so that he could look up at her. She looked down at him in turn, taking in his freshly shorn hair, smooth cheeks and chin, and deep brown eyes that swam with something---she could not place it---but it felt _different_. _She_ felt different. Her eyes shifted to the path cut through the forest ahead of them.

 

“Dragons sleep long.” Zerith murmured, eyes glassy and far away. _And deeply._ Her eyes widened. She had not thought that thought, but heard it somewhere from the depth of her mind. She nearly fell off Applegrabber upon that voice’s intrusion.

 

Hassun was silent for a while, eyes resting on the light leather of her boots.

 

“How are you feeling?” He asked, drawing closer to her. His hand rested on the horn of the saddle in front of her torso.

 

“I’m fine,” She said. But she realized that no matter how hard she tried, she could never make that lie into something feasible. “I’m better than I was. I changed.”

 

“Zerith,” Hassun said her name almost as though she were a deer caught in his sights, at the point where the tip of his arrow touched the cool air. “Please do not think that I would ever look down upon you for what happened, or how you acted. There is no one in this world that could rightly blame you for anything that transpired in Minas Tirith.”

 

He was right. She knew it. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she closed her eyes to will them away. _Strength, Zerith_. She could imagine herself as strong, if only for a moment.

 

“It is not just what happened there. It is my whole life and everything that lays before me. Who will I become? And at what point will people stop blaming fate and destiny and start blaming me, the person?”

 

He took her hand gently in his calloused one, engulfing her cold flesh in his warmth. “Fate and destiny have nothing to do with what you choose. Damn fate and destiny if you do not see them fit to rule your life. Only _you_ choose what path you take. If you choose evil, could you convince yourself you chose it for the right reasons? I doubt you could ever make such a choice knowingly. That is what differentiates you from others. You have suffered so much, and had your life ripped away from you. But you have been given a chance to reshape everything in front of you. Many in your shoes would lead lives of despair and ruin, but you rise above everything and choose kindness and courage. Which path will you take, now?”

 

“Where are we going?” She asked as she looked down at him, not quite meeting his eyes.

 

“We are a few days’ ride from the newly-built Lake-Town. I took an indirect path so you would not have to see...” His face fell. She was confused for a while as she tried to decipher his meaning, but Gostir answered for her. _My kin._ Smaug, she thought with a shudder, or the bones that marked his fall. Zerith was silently grateful that he had spared her that sight.

 

“I will take that path.” She pointed at the road ahead of them. A rare smile blossomed on Hassun’s face, and she could not see where the edges of his mouth disappeared on his tanned skin. He mounted Applegrabber who had started to grow restless, taking the reins from in front of her and urging Applegrabber into a trot.

 

 _Are you here to stay?_ Zerith asked Gostir as they road, the trees growing sparse until the Long Lake and Erebor were splayed out before them.

 

 _There is no true definition as to where you and I end and begin._ Gostir replied. She would contemplate the meaning of his words until they reached Lake-Town. Every time she thought she grew very close to the true answer, it would slip away from her in the wind and leave her with an ache in her heart.

-o-

 

A bard with far too many chins to be able to suck enough air in for the trills he was producing crooned by the corner next to the roaring fireplace inside Lake-Town’s barely-stable tavern as Zerith and Hassun sat down for a meal. Countless men, women, and even a few dwarves fluttered past them every few seconds, gathering closer to the bard with every note. Zerith could feel the vibrations of their dancing footsteps beneath her feet, jostling the table.

 

She was garbed in a soft orange kirtle adorned with darker floral patterns, with a plain dark brown surcoat layered on top to keep her warm. Zerith was glad to be out of her armor and into something that made her feel free. Her armor had grown to be a second skin, but in a dress she felt far more like herself. Her ebony hair was loose and well-combed, and she had even taken the time to cut away the longer strands that had grown too heavy and bushy around her face.

 

Hassun was in the state, wearing charcoal-colored pants and a tunic alongside a tan padded doublet. His face was clean, and whenever she ocasionally glanced up at him, she noticed she could see the way his eyes gleamed in the light more than before. He had insisted on buying new attire to look normal in the town. After all they had been through just a few short years ago as well as the rebuilding process, any mention of trouble ---or dragons--- was sure to be dangerous.

 

“Can you sing, Zerith?” He asked her over the roar of laughter and conversation just as they were draining tankards of ale. She spluttered as soon as she had fully registered what he had asked.

 

“I have the ability to sing, but sing well?” She chuckled lightly. “Terrible things always come out of my mouth, if you catch my meaning, and singing is one of those things.”

“It was worth a try.” Hassun grinned at her. “I’m sure you would sound a lot better than that bard over there.”

 

“A bard’s a bard. Most can’t tell the difference and just go by the name.” She replied offhandedly. Zerith gazed down into her empty tankard and could not remember the last time she had felt so full.

 

“We should get plenty of rest for tomorrow morning.” Hassun’s face sobered. “It should only take a few more days to travel to the whereabouts of my people. After that, I have no doubt that it will be exhausting work. I want you to be prepared.” Zerith nodded.

 

“You are right, though I doubt I could sleep during all of this raucous.” She gave the bard another glance and nearly fell out of her chair when he had accidently set the bottom part of his tunic on fire from the hearth. “On second thought, I change my mind. Let us retire.” She got up quickly, hurrying past countless taverngoers on her way to the corner where their room lay. Hassun insisted on a single room to save money and for protection. Zerith doubted that those factors were all that led to his decision, but she did not push him. She heard the sound of Hassun’s hunter-like footsteps briskly following her at arm’s length.

 

They had almost made it to their rented room when Zerith’s eyes met a cruel black gaze. A strange-looking man with the darkest skin she had ever seen leaned against the wall at the edge of the hallway and his stare pierced through her. She felt frozen in time for a moment.

 

The man’s hair was knotted in many braids arrayed around the crown of his head with a few dangling upon his shaved brow. His beard was long and wicked, but could not rival the curved sword at his hip. He crossed his arms and she saw the ripple of muscle through the thin material of his undershirt. Armor of a dark metal encased his torso and thighs, and it proudly displayed many scratches on its surface. He murmured something under his breath that she could not catch, though she doubted she could have understood it anyway.

 

“He’s an Easterling,” Hassun whispered in her ear, lightly squeezing her arm and turning her back to their room. He shuffled her inside and nearly slammed the door shut, locking it tightly and somewhat-quietly moving the desk to bar the door further.

 

Zerith heaved a great sigh as she fell back on her bed. She was exhausted, yet something gnawed at her that kept her from feeling tired. Hassun began to remove his boots and the sword at his hip, readying himself for the sweet release of sleep. She had half a mind to do the same, but still...

 

She leaned over the edge of her bed and looked under it to where she had rested her father’s shield and Foe’s Folly. They had been untouched by her ever since she had left Minas Tirith. It felt wrong; they were hers now. No one else would touch them. Her father was dead and gone along with the rest of her family. She only had herself and her weapons.

“I meant to ask you about those,” Hassun began softly as he sharpened his sword, “were they your father’s?”

 

Zerith nodded, knowing the truth but feeling not quite so sure. An uneasiness settled in the pit of her stomach. “They were gifts by my mother’s family after he became a guard of Minas Tirith. These weapons saw a lot of action, and my mother’s family saw fit to personalize them for their savior. Now they are mine, and no longer Graywynd’s.” She sighed, and looked longingly at the shield’s emblem. A wing and a tree. _Her_ wing and _her_ tree?

 

Resting the weapons on her bed, she began to tear through the bookshelves and cupboards resting on the walls of their small room. She was meticulous to return every fallen book, trinket, or curiousity in her madness. Hassun’s eyes bore a hole in the back of her, but she felt nothing except a strong drive for _something_.

 

Finally, her hands grasped white and grey paint alongside a paintbrush. She skipped over to her bed and rested the shield on the wall behind her. Dipping the paintbrush in white, she painted layer after layer over the tree until it disappeared.

 

She painted dark grey along the wing’s edges with a delicate hand, erasing it’s feathers until she could squeeze her eyes, imagining leathery grey wings sailing on the wind, and open them to see her imagination unfold in front of her.

 

After she had finished, she rested the shield at the foot of the bed to dry. She turned to see Hassun staring at it, a look of contemplation in his tired eyes. Zerith could do nothing to change the sword’s appearance, but she found that she did not mind it. Her father and her family were gone, but they had forever left their mark upon her. It was time to move on, but she did not completely have to leave her old self behind. In truth, she had not been completely recycled. There was still something lingering and waiting to be unleashed.

 

Hassun tossed and turned in his bed as she lay in her own silently, still in her dress. She felt too relaxed---and somehow, strangely at some sort of peace---to care whether or not it would wrinkle. As she closed her eyes, she knew she would dream of her new shield, and of the grooves in the grip of Foe’s Folly where her father’s hand had once weilded it to strike down Gondor’s foes.

 

“Do you think that your people will know it’s _me?_ ” Zerith asked Hassun quietly. She assumed he was already asleep, for he did not speak until she had almost drifted off herslf.

 

“I doubt they have the intuition to sense the soul of a dead person who lived many years ago, but you are too unique to not raise suspicion.”

 

She smiled in the dim light. No one could argue that she was a woman of her own making. But was she _good_ or _evil_?

-o-

 

The newly-refurbished sigil of Graywynd flashed upon her shield resting on her back as Zerith walked along Hassun, leading Applegrabber slowly. She had not said a word to the Tarakona man ever since they left Lake-Town, for he was intently focused on the path ahead of them. She knew he was trying to search for any sign of his seminomadic people, but the silence was making her restless and shaky in the early dawn light.

 

“I hope your kin who were in Minas Tirith arrived here safely.” Zerith started quietly, her last desire to ruin the beginning of their friendship. “I was wondering about the others, too.”

 

He kept walking and did not slow as she spoke, his eyes always searching for something on the horizon. She looked up and could see the tall spires of the Grey Mountains, marking where the Withered Heath lay. Zerith guessed they were somewhere between the mountains and the Iron Hills, for they had been travelling for a few days at a much slower pace than she was accustomed to.

 

“Some of my kin were meant to stay for a time. Our Clan-Mother said that our mission would be long-term, and so we were meant to gather as many people for our cause as possible.” Her heart sank.

 

“How long-term are we talking?” She asked, regretting she had even said anything. _Gostir said I would live ‘as long as needed’, but how long is long?_

 

“Years, perhaps.” He shrugged slightly but kept moving. The grass began to turn to dirt and snow beneath their feet.

 

“If this task is supposed to take years and is so important that the Tarakona must send their people away from their lands to find outsiders to join their cause, do you not think that your Clan-Mother should have told you what it is that is so momentous?” Zerith asked, trying to keep her voice calm and steady. Her hand rested on Foe’s Folly’s’ pommel and she thumbed the smooth stone idly.

 

“Of course,” Hassun replied, “but you are not understanding of how our people work. We are much different than how we were when Satherra lived. In Satherra’s days, we prospered and rarely had to fear. Now, we fear everything. Satherra caused a chasm in the North. A rift lies between our people as well as others in the North that I fear can never be mended. What is worse is that war is coming.” His pace quickened.

 

“War? With who?” She stopped, and Applegrabber’s head bumped into her.

 

“Evil, and the forces of the Necromancer. The East, and Mordor.” He replied shortly, before kneeling on the ground and pressing his palm to faint indentations in the ground.

“We are close, but they are on the move. We should hurry to find them before nightfall. Northern winters are harsh, especially unprotected from the wind.” Looking around, there was no rock, cave, or ditch for miles. It was all flat-packed earth and enormous mountains in the distance.

 

The pair quickly mounted Applegrabber who seemed to be more than ready to warm his muscles before the approach of a blizzard, and he shot forward into a gallop. Zerith watched the ground race by them dizzily. The green gradually blended into brown, which eventually faded to white. The white grew thicker until Applegrabber was forced to slow his pace. The wind whipped around them as the sun slowly sunk into the sky.

 

A few more hours had passed, and it was as though they had made no progress at all. The snow glowed a dark blue before them as the sun had all but disappeared on the horizon, and the wind was brutal upon their faces. Zerith pulled her cloak tighter upon her body, and she felt Hassun’s hand gripping her upper arm, slightly rubbing it to keep the chill away. She had experienced many winters, but she had never felt so _cold._

“Does it get better?” Zerith asked, wincing as the frigid air made her eyes water.

 

“For our people? Yes. For you? No. As you often point out, you are a _dragon_ , and most dragons prefer heat.” He yelled above the wind and took Applegrabber’s reins from her hand, turning him further towards the edge of the Grey Mountains.

 

 _But you are a cold drake,_ Zerith thought mentally.

 

 _I was born a cold drake, yet I have learned how to breathe fire and fly._ Gostir replied. _I, and you, are unique exceptions to common knowledge._

 

_That we are._

 

“You said that you had a task that Gostir wanted you to perform in the North,” Hassun began, “but you never informed me in detail. Now is the best time to do so.”

 

“I will help your people, find a shard of Gostir’s egg, and read the prophecy-stone.” Zerith responded, watching the stars unfurl from the clouds above them.

 

“An egg-shard? Gostir was born thousands of years ago. Surely it would have been destroyed by time or another drake.”

 

“I had the same thought, but Gostir said that dragon eggs are extremely resilient. They can last for hundreds of years without hatching through any storm, waiting for...something.” She thought out loud.

 

_You never told me what you wanted me to do with the egg-shard._

Silence filled her mind for a long while until Hassun yanked Applegrabber’s reins to a halt. She looked up and saw the faint orange glow of fires illuminating a hundred dun tents in the distance.

 

“We have arrived,” Hassun responded almost grimly. He dismounted, and she quickly followed suit after him, leading Applegrabber along hesitantly.

 

 _You do not know, do you?_ She asked Gostir as she followed.

 

 _No, I do not._ _All I know is that dragon eggs carry forgotten memories. I have forgotten many periods of my life, and you know little of your own fate in piece in the world. Every step you--we---take is another towards answers._ Gostir’s voice echoed faintly between her ears and forehead.

 

She was lost in thought as they grew closer to the camp. Would the Tarakona know about her? Would they _know_ her? She hoped for her sake that she would be nothing more than an eccentric woman to them. For once in her life, she would enjoy leaving no mark or impression on people or civilizations at all.

 

Two guards stood along what she saw in the darkness to be an entrance, leaning on their spears. She could not make out their faces from all the furs they garbed themselves in, but she knew they were scrutinizing her. On either side of the entrance, workers drowning in tan furs packed snow into walls along the edges of the encampment. Zerith raised an eyebrow in confusion; the Tarakona were a nomadic people, and she never remembered them building any walls when she had seen them through Satherra’s eyes.

 

Hassun and the guards exchanged brief words, occasionally motioning back to where she stood a fair distance away. Something in the back of her mind was itching, disturbed at being so reliant on Hassun for making sure they knew she had come to offer aid in whatever they asked of her. Would they know that one of their greatest enemies was standing directly outside of their camp, despite being housed in a different body?

 

One of the guards turned to one of the people working, and they rose and turned towards her. The fair-haired woman brushed the sweat from her brow and gave Zerith a polite smile as she slowly approached Applegrabber, motioning to the reins she held tightly in her hands. Zerith blinked at the woman for a moment, embarrassed to realize that she probably looked the part of someone guilty or very fearful given her body language and stance.

 

“I will stable your horse,” The woman said with a light, friendly accent. Zerith quickly handed Applegrabber over to her, who did not seem very eager to depart from his beloved friend. Still, the tired horse followed the woman into the camp. Hassun turned slightly towards her and nodded as he followed after the horse. Seeing the guards’ relaxed postured, she followed suit, willing herself not to glance at their faces for any worrying signs.

The leather and fur tents were arranged in a circle around an enormous central tent, with a smooth snowy path between them. Zerith could see nothing more from behind Hassun, but diligently followed him to the side of the center. The light-haired woman stabled Applegrabber next to a dozen other horses to the left of her. Realizing that she had been staring at the camp for too long, she quickly moved to stand next to Hassun.

 

To her right stood a few other of the Tarakona that had been sent out across Middle Earth alongside all the men that they had gathered. She saw men of all shape and origin alongside a dwarf. Dark-haired Gondorians like her; the fair and sturdy people of Rohan; the scruffy Breelanders; and many Dale-folk who she assumed had seen the job to be easy given their proximity. The dwarf stood low but out from all of them, his head bald and heavily tattooed with intricate, dark chains and patterns. His beard was an impressive red: long, pointed, and braided around his drawn mouth. Even though they were all standing in silence, he seemed to be having the time of his life. A smile grew on his face through his fiery beard, and he bounced on his large feet, the chainmail of his armour clinking with every slight motion.

 

The dwarf looked up at her, and he jumped slightly then stilled. His eyes grew with merriment and he nodded. She quickly averted her gaze back to the front flap of the grand tent, seeing slight motion inside.

 

After a few minutes, an old woman emerged. Her greyed hair flowed about her waist, kept in place by a dark fur hood and cloak that shifted about her sinewy frame, and her wide brown eyes seemed to stare beyond the mercenaries and tents. She was robed in a plain buckskin dress trimmed with soft white fur, stained red with the patterns of many animals.

 

Another figure appeared from behind her, this time a tall and thin man garbed in thick leather armor. He was armed and ready for battle, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword. His face was framed with a feathered headdress whose crest shone silver. With just one hesitant glance, she saw the same sober and calculating gaze that had been reflected in Hassun’s eyes many times.

 

When the man spoke, it was as though he had awoken them all out of a trance, for a motion flowed through the air and passed between all of them simultaneously.

 

“I am Chieftain Massak of the Tarakona. This is Clan-Mother Purnaq. We welcome you all, friends of all places. You have traveled long, and we invite you all to enter and enjoy the warm of our fires as well as the food we have prepared for you. We will explain all that we have asked in due time.”

 

Zerith’s focus broke, and she looked at Clan-Mother Purnaq. Their gazes met, and the Clan-Mother’s stare pierced through every part of her. _She knew._ She must have, Zerith thought. _The fire...the fire..._ Her blood grew warm as she stood frozen in time. _Does she know who I am connected to, or does she just sense something threatening about me?_ Zerith had no time to ponder before the men entered the tent. The Clan-Mother reluctantly broke their stare, turning to go inside to bask in the warm of the fires. Hassun was the last to enter, turning towards her and raising an eyebrow of concern. _Great. Now he knows that I know that she knows._ Zerith just shook her head slightly and followed him in.

 

The inside of the large tent felt like a volcano in the midst of a blizzard, for the roaring fires in the center of the tent burned more intensely than any fire Zerith had seen, except for dragon-fire. It was the only light source in the tent, casting an orange glow on the faces of the many people who ate, bartered, and danced around the flames. Most were dark-haired and dark-eyed as was typical of the Tarakona, but she saw a few other peoples of various descent mingling. In the crowd, it was very difficult to differentiate people, as many wore similar furred tunics and coats. She wondered how they didn’t sweat to death, for she felt the beginnings of perspiration on the back of her neck.

 

A large feasting table was arrayed next to the forge and leatherworking stations, and a few of the contracted men had already drifted over to sample the goods. The dwarf found what looked to be spirits of some sort, poured himself a goblet, and spluttered as soon as the drink reached his lips. A few of the Tarakona mustered over to him and their laughter barely rose above the raucous echoing against the smooth leather flaps. She saw more and more people lift up a small portion of the tent and join in the festivities until the number of people grew to at least a hundred if not more.

 

Hassun’s hand rested lightly upon the back of her shoulder and she turned to face him.

 

“You should speak to some of the other men,” He began as he leaned closer so that she could properly hear him, “and especially the dwarf. I think he has taken a liking to you already.” His grin felt almost mocking, and her cheeks burned.

 

“I do not care what anyone else thinks about me. I am here to do a job and find out a little about myself, that is all.” She retorted quietly enough not to raise any attention.

 

Hassun’s shoulders fell with a soft sigh. “And that is one of the many lessons that you must learn. You will fight beside those men, that dwarf, and possibly alongside my people. And I know you will fight on the front lines of other armies as well. You must be a guiding light during peace and strife. And now is when you will learn just how much you can truly influence people and the world.” He leaned in again, his words meant only for her. “Satherra once was an inspiration in the North. Who will you be?” He took a step away from her, and she looked around to notice peoples’ eyes upon them, clearly wondering about their close proximity. “I must go speak with my father.” Hassun said before turning away and disappearing in the crowd. _Father?_ She strained to see where he had went and spotted him speaking to the chieftain. _Ah...no wonder they look so similar._

 

Zerith stood alone, the Tarakona leaving a wide circular berth around the stranger. She tried to imagine herself back in Minas Tirith as a young girl attending one of her mother’s parties. She would get swept up among the fine ladies’ skirts while wearing a twinkling midnight blue gown of her own. Her voice would grow hoarse among the strong scents of ale and wine, though she never talked enough to be heard or even matter in any conversation. Whenever she felt unsure or drowned among the many strangers swirling and dancing around her in dizzying hues, she could always look to her mother, whose eyes would warm whenever she caught sight of her daughter.

 

Zerith struggled not to cry.

 

A hand tightly wrapped itself around her left forearm and she whipped around to be face-to-face with large brown eyes that saw all of her. She almost fainted as she inhaled the strong scent of animal blood and herbs.

 

“ _I know you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone ^^
> 
> So this chapter is the first full chapter I have written since abandoning the fic. Let me know what you think. I hope I am not rushing the story too much, I am just not the type of writer to go on and on about stuff that has no bearing on the events of the story. 
> 
> (P.S., I hope I fixed the weird formatting issue for future chapters.)
> 
> I would very much love to read your comments, feedback, and criticisms. See you next chapter!


	9. Song of the North

Chapter Nine: Song of the North

“ _Your face,_ ” Clan-Mother Purnaq began, “is like an old soul to me. I wonder if we have met before?” Her voice was warm and clear, almost kindly towards Zerith, and she shivered. The old woman let go of her arm and Zerith let out a breath.

“I have never been to the North,” Zerith shook her head fervently, flashing the woman as friendly of a smile as she could.

“You fooled me, for you seem as though you are well-acquainted to our customs already.” _Well-acquainted? I barely did anything. Does she see some Satherra in me? Something familiar?_ “I will let you eat, as I know you must have had a long journey. But I want to get to know more about you. It is rare to see a warrior woman from the lands in the South.” Clan-Mother Purnaq turned away, the Tarakona parting to let her through as she went to speak with the woman that had taken Applegrabber.

Zerith snapped out of her trance with the rumble of her stomach, and she turned away to hurry over to the feasting table before everything good was taken. Luckily, the plates and bowls seemed to just have been refilled: various stews, grained breads, ales and wines, roasted meats on a stick, and squashes greeted her. She conservatively took a wooden bowl and filled it with stew, breaking up a dark rye bread into it. Water would suit her, as she preferred to always be soberer than those around her.

She took to a corner with less people, still in close proximity with the Chieftain in case he would address the mercenaries of their duties tonight. Her eyes scanned the crowd and recognized that many of the men were doing the same, though most had gone through several flagons of strong wine already. The Chieftain was still engaged in a fervent discussion with Hassun, and she was able to catch a few glances of the disconcerted looks that formed on his face. Whatever they were talking about, Hassun found issue with it. And so she found issue with it, or at least a growing unease.

_Were the Tarakona like this back when Satherra was alive?_

_Worse,_ Gostir said. _Well, the feasts were more conservative when Satherra was younger. When she reached maidenhood and was at the forefront of her people, she inspired them. And in the North, inspiration breeds drunkenness, contests, and overeating. Satherra helped to win her people many battles against rival tribes._

Zerith was surprised in how much she did not mind Gostir’s direct presence in the back of her mind. She knew it was more dangerous than she would ever normally allow, but he had saved her life more than a few times. She constantly reminded herself that he needed her to have any chance at living a life on his own terms. The prospect of a dragon relying on a young woman grew less and less foreign as time went on.

Suddenly, she felt a presence by her side.

“Not much of a partygoer, are you, lass?” The fiery-bearded dwarf commented, assuming a similar stiff posture as her and lowering his mug of ale by his side. He rested a heavy hand on his hip and would occasionally look between her and the people around the two as he waited for her response.

“Not for many years.” Zerith murmured with a guarded glance his way.

The dwarf jolted. “Ah, well, you would have fooled me. It may have been between my seventh and eighth ale, but I swore I saw you jumping about on the feasting table in your underclothes doing a merry jig.” He began to laugh, and her frown deepened.

“You imagined me in my _underclothes_?” Zerith hissed and rolled her eyes. “...what color were they?” She deadpanned.

He flashed a similar serious look before the two of them chuckled. “Oh, colorful enough. I knew I would like you as soon as I saw ye’. The name’s Mhafi.” He offered a broad hand, and she leaned slightly to shake it.

“Zerith Graywynd.” She responded, her name feeling like sand in her mouth.

“A strong name,” Mhafi bellowed. “But I can’t place the locale.”

“I am Gondorian, born in Minas Tirith.”

“Ah, I should have known by the hair and eyes. They sparkle.” He nodded, agreeing to himself. “Rohirrim and Breelanders are covered in too much dirt and grass to sparkle. And Dale-folk...they just stink.” Mhafi rubbed at his nose. Zerith held in a laugh, throwing a cautious gaze at the other men he had secretly insulted out of the corner of her eye.

“And you? Do you come from a sparkling land as well, Mhafi?” Zerith asked, turning to face him directly.

He frowned and drained the mug of ale, leaving his beard sopping wet and dripping onto the floor.

“All dwarf-lands sparkle, lass. We treasure the great beauties of the world such as gems and ore nearly as well as dragons.” He spoke his last word in a whisper so that no one around could overhear, and she shivered at his uncanny statement. “The Iron Hills. Just a stone’s throw away, but I’d go to the ends of the earth for any chance at adventure.”

“Adventure? I don’t know if I would call being frozen adventure. Besides, who knows what the Chieftain will ask of us.” Zerith mused.

“Now you’re starting to sound like him.” He pointed at Hassun who was still talking with his father, though he nursed a dark wine.

“He must have influenced me, for he brought me here all the way from Bree.” She smiled slightly.

“Who is the adventurer now?” Mhafi asked to himself with a laugh, rubbing his beard.

She saw a figure cross in front of them, and it was Hassun. He said something to each of the mercenaries as the Chieftain disappeared from view. Then he approached the pair who idly leaned against a large wooden beam.

“Ah, I am glad you two are well-acquainted. You’ll need to be where we are going.” Hassun looked at both of them, the orange glow of fire reflecting in his dark eyes. “Follow me. The Chieftain is going to inform you of your task.” _Our task?_ His eyes were cold and distant. The dwarf and woman shared a long look of apprehension but followed the Tarakona man into the cold of the night. Just before she left the fire’s embrace, she could feel eyes boring holes into the back of her. _You’re an outsider. That’s all there is to you._

Outside, the Chieftain and the other men stood around a small fire that burned hazily against the midnight sky. A thousand stars had come out to shine above them. As Zerith slowly approached, she observed how the men fidgeted and cast weary glances towards the ground. Some wobbled on their feet from too many drinks, though she was glad to see a few that looked sober enough.

The dwarf and woman joined the group around the outside of the circle, across from where the Chieftain and Hassun stood. Clan-Mother Purnaq approached with the smallest of steps behind the two, joining the three Tarakona.

Chieftain Massak’s voice boomed against the muffled laughs and jeers of the crowd inside the main tent.

“Now that you have shared in our hospitality, you will find out what you have travelled long and far for. Our people are at war.”

The shuffling around the fire grew more fervent.

“Relations among the tribes of the North has been strained for the past two decades, but now they are at their breaking point. The Hayili and Rjesa have conquered a few lesser tribes and have joined forces with the intent of bending the North to their will.

In a few days’ time, the Lossoth will arrive in our lands alongside a few tribes who have managed to resist the influences of darkness. Together, we will put down any threats to our people once and for all, and forge a new path for ourselves.

I have called on you to support our people in these times of strife. You will work side by side by our people as well as the other tribes to eliminate any threats. As a reward, there are many fine goods in the North to be had and given freely after our people are safe. Will you accept this task?”

No one responded for a while, looking at each other with eyes that dared for someone to speak.

Finally, Mhafi took a step forward.

“I will do what needs to be done on behalf of your people, and on behalf of the Free Peoples. Your war is our war, after all.” He said proudly. She could not help but smile as she gazed down at the proud dwarf, joining him.

“I have travelled too far to back down now. As have we all,” she declared. “No matter what is to come, I will stand with your people.”

A few of the men began to come to, nodding their approval hesitantly at first, then more fervently. The Chieftain’s face bloomed in a small grin of approval, but Hassun’s own face was stone cold. She tried to meet his distant eyes, but they were focused on the fire.

“Good,” the Chieftain said. “I am glad that you all see this as more than just a job. There will be many rewards to be had, but the greatest reward is protecting the innocent. Over the next few days, we will teach you all that you need to be able to properly see the war through. Once the Lossoth arrive, you will join them to combat the forces of darkness. Hassun will show you to your sleeping quarters. Zerith, I would have a word with you.”

_He knows my name?_ Her face paled and her ear-to-ear smile melted. Hassun looked up and their eyes met. She saw something that she never thought he would be capable of: fear. It quickly disappeared as his face scrunched into something that looked more professional, and far more distant than she could ever hope to discern. He motioned the men to follow him, and Mhafi craned his head to flash an eager grin before departing with the rest of the group.

Clan-Mother Purnaq slowly trudged over to speak with the fair-haired woman from before who was sharpening a hoard of weapons on the hard-packed snow. Zerith only saw the woman look up and smile softly out of respect before her view was blocked by Chieftain Massak as he stepped forward. She could barely see his expression on his face in the shadow of his extremely tall body, but she knew he wore a frown.

“You are the one Hassun found and escorted on our behalf,” he began. She nodded. “I was not expecting him to find a woman blade-for-hire but anyone who will support my people is welcome. The people in the North are more lenient on who fights in battles, though the Tarakona once did not permit women to fight. We have changed many things ever since our founding. I am glad to see you pledge your blade, and in turn, your life, to our cause.” Yet he did not smile. She wished she could escape his stare for but a moment to find some kind of solace in Hassun, but he was many distances away.

“Ever since the day I came of age,” Zerith replied, her voice unwavering, “I pledged myself to the protection and support of the Free Peoples. I will not go against my promise, on the souls of my family.”

The Chieftain nodded slowly. “Hassun spoke well of you. Though you are the youngest among these men, he saw promise in you. He saw a spark, a potential, a _fire._ ” Zerith shivered and tried to conceal her bewilderment with a shrug of her shoulders.

“He found me in Bree and we took the long road to arrive here, so there was plenty of time for him to make those assumptions.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Assumptions? My son does not make decisions lightly. He chooses his words carefully like his father, and our ancestors. We are slow to trust and suspicious of everyone and everything. Time and the cold has worn our typical friendliness down to daggers.” The Tarakona leader muttered grimly.

“Then I hope that his decision was the right one.” She responded.

“I should leave you to rest, for I cannot understand how much of a toll your journey has taken on you.” _And taken on others. And taken others._ “I hope to speak more with you as time progresses.” He tipped his head slightly toward her and she bowed respectfully in response, any semblance of words caught in her throat. She watched him fade away in the darkness until his son replaced his figure. A knot tangled in her stomach as he approached her.

“Are you alright?” She asked him as he stopped an arm’s length away, his face hidden in the shadows of his hair.

“I am fine,” he said slowly. “Relations with my father have always been tense. I was angry when he told me what your task was, and angrier when he said I would not be joining you and the other men. I insisted and for once, he gave in. I never thought my father to keep secrets from me, let alone as enormous a secret as the fact that we will be going to war.”

She heard the strain in his voice and knew he was too sensitive in the moment to be criticized, but her curiousity won out.

“You are one of the most important members of the Tarakona. You are his only living relation, yes? So why insist on coming with us? I am sure there were many things he could teach you about battle personally while you are at his side. And in war, there are many battlefields. So why come with a few ragtag men, a dwarf, and a woman?” She tilted her head, trying to keep her voice as objective as possible.

“Because that _woman_ is in great danger,” He seethed and took a step closer towards her, grabbing her shoulders roughly. “If my people found out who she was, she would be in harm’s way. If she exposes herself with her unique talent alongside the men, they might kill her. Not to mention the fact that she would be the only woman among men. Living, eating, and sleeping next to them. Fighting next to them.

And now she will be fighting in a war. A war against barbaric savages. She has not seen what they are capable of like I have. What happens if she gets injured, captured, or killed? What happens to our people and the world then?”

Her eyes widened and she blinked back moisture. His own softened as he realized all that he had said, and he let go of her arms quickly. He head hung low.

“Life goes on without that woman.” She whispered in reply, and his head shot up. “Hassun, I have almost lost my life multiple times. I have been beaten down and scarred. But I have not been driven to fear. No matter what happens to me, I will not regret coming here and fighting.” _Alongside you._ “I am not a child. I have self-control. And to answer your last uncertainty, we slept a few lengths away from each other for weeks. And I killed that man who tried to...” She shuddered. “I was born to fight, not to stay put.”

In the dimness, she thought she saw his face redden against the glow of fire.

“I know you. I am the only one who truly knows you here. Would you truly wish me to stay behind after all the time we were by each other’s side?” A frown sprouted on her face, and the fire felt like a blaze next to her.

“I am alone. And no one can know me.” She retorted, her voice even and cool. “I would not have you sacrifice your life because you believe I need special protection. If you would not do it for any of those other men, do not do it for me. And with all you have said, I believe that your father is right.” Then she stepped past him, walking aimlessly as long as it was away from him. It took all her will not to turn her head and see his distraught gaze.

Eventually she found her way to the stables, and to Applegrabber’s side. His great bay head was turned away from her as he quenched his thirst. The horse did not seem to be in the mood for socializing with his fellow stablemates. He picked his head up when he heard her approach, though.

“Hello, my friend,” she whispered to him. The horse turned towards her and met her patient hand, rubbing against her. “We have come a long way, haven’t we? And I wonder if this was the right way to go...” Zerith murmured aimlessly, taking a seat on a stool in the corner of the stable. Applegrabber kept one wise eye trained on her.

“I could have gone anywhere. Any direction, and made a name for myself. No guarantees that I would be better off, but I would be _free._ I chained myself to the past, and to who I was born to be. But who am I _supposed_ to be?” She asked him. He shook his head softly.

“No one knows. My parents did not know. They’re dead along with the rest of my blood ties. Gandalf did not know. He abandoned me. Hassun does not know. He’s loyal to his people, and I respect that. I am supposed to know. I am the only one who can choose what my life turns out to be, but I feel more powerless than anyone.

All I know is that I must fight, now. Fight for a people I do not belong to by birth, but by my heart. I belong to all the peoples, but I do not feel like I belong to myself. Is there someone else pulling my strings, or am I just clueless?” The horse seemed to be ignoring her now after she had said all that there was to say. She sighed, and looked down at the straw. Suddenly, she saw a pale hand rest on the wooden beam of the stable. Applegrabber began to dart but relaxed at the familiar face.

“Hello, I did not mean to startle you,” the pale-haired woman said with a polite smile, “but it is rather late. My name is Eska. The Clan-Mother asked me to provide you with somewhere to sleep away from all the men, since I live alone.” Her voice seemed to shine brighter than the sun to Zerith.

“I would very much appreciate that,” Zerith responded. “You seem to have taken good care of Applegrabber, which is one of the most difficult tasks known to man since he is one of the most ornery of horses to ever have existed. I am sure I won’t be any trouble.” She rubbed at her eyes, the depth of her exhaustion not reaching her until the downtime.

Eska giggled, brushing strands of blonde hair that had escaped her long ponytail from her face. In the darkness, Zerith barely registered that her eyes were a light green. She looked nothing like most of the Tarakona with their darker features, and she assumed that the woman had mixed lineage.

A wave of the hand brought Zerith to her weary feet as Eska waved Applegrabber farewell and began to walk leisurely to where her tent must have been pitched. Zerith gazed to where the frigid darkness turned the edges of the camp a hazy grey, and she could not see where the series of tents ended.

Luckily, Eska’s tent was in one the sections closest to the Great Tent. It looked much bigger than she would have assumed one lone woman would need, and as Eska lifted the flap for her to enter, Zerith was instantly taken aback by the sheer heat radiating from the inside of the tent. She entered into the blaze which cast the fur and leather hues of orange and rust.

A few fur bedrolls were scattered on the borders of the tent, with a large fur rug in the center of the tent as a sitting space. She saw a few spears and javelins scattered about as well as buckets, brooms, and a few other supplies the woman had taken on a long journey.

“Make yourself at home,” Eska said, giving Zerith a strange look at the way she longingly looked around the tent. Zerith quickly took the bedroll closest the tent entrance, hoping for a glimpse of the stars. She heard Eska shuffle around behind her before lying in her own bedroll.

            “I had secretly hoped that our people would bring a woman to aid us. A flighty hope, but a hope nevertheless. Where are you from, Zerith?” The pale woman asked, her voice light.

            “Minas Tirith, but Hassun found me in Bree.” She replied, trying to will emotion to form in her voice to feel normal.

            “That is a long way! Longer than most of the men travelled. And much longer than anyone would willing travel. Why did you decide to help us?”

            “Adventure, like most everyone else. Also, a connection.” Zerith bit her tongue after what she had said, silently cursing herself.

            “What sort of connection?” Eska’s voice began to fall.

            “I cannot describe it. I just feel a connection to the North. In all the books I have read, and all the paintings I’ve glimpsed, I felt something pulling me here. I want to find out what it is, and save lives along the way.” Zerith was hoping that would be all to appease the girl.

            “There is no harm in that, then. And we are welcome to have you fight alongside us. Your sword and shield look formidable.” Zerith gazed to where her weapons rested just next to her, forgetting that she had been gripping them tightly in her tired haze.

            “I hope to prove just the same,” Zerith mused. The woman giggled.

            “There are many techniques we could teach you as well. I doubt you have fought beside a fully functioning unit before. We Northerners are not as barbaric as we may seem.” Eska assured strongly.

            “Can you teach me to use a spear and javelin?” Zerith asked, craning her neck to look at the woman behind her with a small smile.

            “Absolutely! If you are a fast learner, you can pick up a few things in the short time that it will take for the Lossoth and the other tribes to arrive here. Will you feel well enough to start tomorrow?” Eska asked.

            “Provided I don’t sleep through the whole day, I would enjoy that.” Zerith chuckled.

            “Then do not let me keep you awake any longer with my girlish talk.” Eska replied warmly before sitting up to extinguish the fire in the corner of the room. The fireholder was a strange device that Zerith found herself staring at when they had initially arrived. It bore a metal cage that confined the flames so that nothing would be at risk of burning, yet it put off more heat and light than any other fire she had come across. Zerith squeezed her eyes shut, deciding she wanted no more of reality staring her in the face. The sounds stilled behind her.

            Zerith did not keep track of how long her eyes had been closed before a voice made the back of her mind itch.

            _So you arrived safe and soundly, only to place yourself in a snare._

_A snare?_ She inquired.

_You seem to misunderstand how this arrangement between you and I works._ Gostir responded. _I did not want you to fight a war. You are far more valuable to me alive than dead at this point. All I need is for you to find my egg-shard and the prophecy stone._

_And then?_

_And then we will figure it out. We will figure out who we are. Who I am. Who you are. And what we can do about our predicament._ Gostir grumbled. She felt the strain of his voice echoing between her eyes.

_We would have better luck asking the Valar ourselves._ She joked, but Gostir did not respond.

_You’re feeling it again, aren’t you?_ She asked hesitantly.

_The pull, the need._ Gostir affirmed. _It is a monumental effort to keep the two sides of me separated, and one of them diminished. As time goes on, I wonder if I will ever be free._

_You are free when you are with me._ Zerith argued.

_Free but in the chains of your body. I do not have a body of my own to fly, nor a voice to breathe fire._

_But you used my hands to kill my---our--- adversary. You use my lungs and throat to breathe fire. You’re right about the wings. I doubt I will sprout any soon. But is it so bad to be attached to me?_

_Do you really believe that when you breathe fire or fight, I am completely in control? How much of you is me and how much is you?_

Zerith shivered. _I don’t know. How can I..._

_Recall that Satherra was able to breathe fire on her own. Others might have been able to as well in due time._

_But Satherra was_ special. _You chose her above all others._

_No, she chose herself. As can you._ Gostir rumbled.

_Choose?_ She wondered.

_Choose to be who you want to be, or who you think you were born to be._

_Are they not the same?_ Zerith pondered.

_Are they?_ Gostir retorted.

_I am too tired for your mind games,_ Zerith prickled, _and so I am going to sleep._

_Yes, sleep._ Gostir whispered, her body growing warm. _I have another gift for you._

_Sleep._ She slept.

-o-

“You have been given my fire breath, but I have other gifts to be shared with you,” Gostir rumbled, his silver scales sparkling in the mist that enveloped them.

“You have already given me much,” Zerith replied. “My fire, and my strength, if it is as you say. What else could you possibly have to freely give?”

“Many other of my traits will come to you naturally, but mist-breath and the dragon-spell must be taught.” Her eyes widened.

“To you, I am sure it seems like my breath already is mist, for my flame is comparatively small.” She jested. “What could mist-breath do for me?”

The great grey dragon stretched so far that she could not see where his head disappeared behind the hazy mists around them. “Before you fell asleep and came to these confines of your mind, I created the mist you see around you. When used lightly, it makes it quite difficult to see. But when used in force...” She braced as she watched him inhale, the glow where his neck met his chest disappearing.

He exhaled a great greenish-grey cloud that instantly made her drop to her knees and gasp for air. Her lungs turned to lead and she could barely keep her eyes open. Everything fogged over as she gagged and choked. Blindly, she began to crawl on her hands and knees towards where Gostir had been. Her eyes would be permitted to open for just a moment to see the silver of his form flash before they squeezed shut involuntarily again.

It felt like an eternity before her body hit the thick swishing smoothness of his spiked tail. Her bare hands pored over ever crevice in his armor as she began to feel herself grow dizzy from the lack of oxygen. Slowly and agonizingly, her hands gripped onto his scales and began to pull herself onto his tail. As she swayed, it felt like he was a moving mass of fiery rock below her small body.

She held on for dear life as the tail lashed around further, finally reaching the steady base of his tail and back. Zerith could not hear his voice over the pounding in her ears and her coughs, but she doubted he approved. The air up there, many feet above the ground, was much clearer. Zerith began to breathe again.

She continued to climb along his back for what felt like _miles_ , past where his leathered wings joined his body. Every scale and handhold felt like a smoothed, curved mirror beneath her fingertips. Zerith met resistance to where she could climb no further. The air felt clear. She opened her eyes and sucked in a breath.

The woman had found her way to sit behind his long raised neck. Luckily, she had not gone too far to where menacing-looking steely spikes graced his neck. All she could see were the swirling patterns of his scaled armor, but if she tilted her body, she could see almost completely past his neck into the fog ahead of them.

As she looked over her shoulder, she gasped. She had managed to climb a great distance without passing out. His body trailed for many house-lengths, and the crests of the scales lining his back seemed mountains to her. Something felt _wrong_ , however. Every detail about him was blurred and out of focus. She knew deep down in her heart that he would look far more powerful in real life. His scales must be able to glow brighter, and there must be thousands more of them that she could never count. Something felt off, almost like...

“I wasn’t meant to do this.” Zerith murmured. Gostir huffed above her and blew the fog all away.

“I never would have guessed you would do such a thing, no.” He grumbled, but not as bitterly as she anticipated.

“You almost killed me! What else was I supposed to do? You were the only high ground in my reach.” She hissed.

“Complaining about misfortune does not keep you alive.” He coolly responded.

“I can complain and speak with my actions as well, thank you very much.” She huffed. “Anyways, that did not actually teach me how to use mist-breath.”

“We did not formally meet until you were a young maiden, yet you were able to breathe fire as a child. Seek power within yourself, and you shall have all the strength you need. The dragon-spell, now...” He shook his head and she gripped his scales tighter as she wobbled. He began to walk slowly and she squeezed her legs tighter around the base of his neck, peering around to see where they were going. As usual, nowhere but empty ground.

“A demonstration, so that when the time comes, all will bend to your will.” The dragon beamed as he puffed his chest out with pride. Grey-green grass materialized below him, and so did an army of Tarakona men brandishing spears and javelins at him. Zerith shivered at their uncanny resemblances to many of the men she had seen in reality. And these ones looked _furious._ A bold younger man in the front of the unit tossed a javelin straight towards _her._ She whipped back over to the safety of Gostir’s neck and watched the javelin _plink_ off the dragon’s shoulder scale with ease.

She slowly returned to cautiously peer down at the scene. The other men flashed a look of terror at the man’s useless and very brazen attack. Their fear turned to rage on their faces, but a glow began to burn bright reflected in their eyes. Zerith turned to try and look at Gostir’s head, not being able to glimpse his eyes. _The dragon-spell._ The yellowed glow of Gostir’s eyes bore into the Tarakona and they relinquished their weapons. The glow disappeared as quickly as it had come.

More of the world appeared around her and she could see the scene clearly. The sky was the brightest blue she had ever seen, dotted with many clouds. The group of men turned to a thousand before them. Men, women, and children had come to witness the dragon’s arrival before them. Zerith pulled her watery eyes away from them towards the horizon where the sun twinkled off a sea. But all that she could truly _feel_ was the awe of the Tarakona pounding her heart.

She looked down at them again, and her eyes met the brown ones of a young girl who looked very much like her.

-o-

            “Are you ever going to wake up?” a small voice rang in the fluid haze around Zerith. She could feel warm breath on her face and she struggled to open her eyes.

            Eska’s bright red cheeks and beaming smile greeted her as she raised her tingly arms to brush the sleep from her face. The Tarakona woman seized both of her hands and raised Zerith’s body up with a shock. She briskly formed Zerith’s body into a cross-legged sleeping position and ignored Zerith’s bewildered look as she raced around the tent.

            “Get up, silly woman! Didn’t you say you wanted training?” Eska shoved a bowl of a piping hot stew into the dark-haired woman’s chest as she passed her and stepped out of the tent into the blinding white light of morning. Zerith raised the free hand that wasn’t clutching the stew to shield her eyes. The flap lowered and she was able to see for a moment, staring down at the chunks of meat and potatoes sinking in a thick and mushy mixture of oats. Unappetizing, but Zerith’s stomach was in no mood to complain. She scarfed the food down before Eska could return to drag her off.

            Sure enough, just as she had finished eating, Zerith heard scraping noises from outside of the tent. Her sword hand flexed but almost completely relaxed when she saw that it was Eska dragging in a warm tub of water into the tent.

“You are quite grimy. More grimy than any woman I have seen in a while, in fact.” Eska began with a tired huff as she rested the wooden tub in the middle of the tent, the water gently sloshing about. “Well, what are you waiting for? Undress and scrub yourself with these,” she produced a rough-looking brush, a porous stone, and delicately-shaped soaps which were set on Zerith’s bedroll. Rummaging through her pack at her side, she pulled a thin leather outfit out which she assumed was meant for her. “I still need to see to a fur coat like what our people wear for you. I shall do that while you bathe, unless there is anything else you need?”

Zerith blinked at her in surprise.

“You have done so much more for me than I could have expected or even asked for. Thank you.” She murmured simply, finding it difficult to maintain eye contact with the woman whose smile was as large are her heart seemed to be.

Eska only grinned and left the privacy of the tent to scout for a coat and do, well, Zerith did not quite want to know what else. She found the woman to be in an exceptional state of mind compared to herself. Although, she had spoken to few other women ever since she left Minas Tirith. In some ways, she missed the simplicity of the lives they normally led. She missed the dresses, the cooking, reading countless books and singing to the birds. But she knew she would miss saving lives, exploring the world, and finding out about who she truly was so much more.

Zerith undressed quickly and hopped into the scalding water, not knowing how long she would have privacy. The water’s intense heat felt more comforting than burning on her skin as she scrubbed the worries and dirt of the road away. Her hair was a nearly-matted clump before her bath, but the soap subs smoothed it until it was easily able to be braided into a crown high on her head.

Leaning back against the edge of the tub, she allowed herself to close her eyes for a few moments.

A familiar but eerie feeling tickled in the back of her mind leaving her nearly restless. She was not surprised to not feel Gostir’s warm presence alongside her inner reflection. The darkness only meant one thing...

Looking down at her pruny hands, she stepped out of the tub with a shiver and began to dry and clothe herself. The leather tunic and pants would not be warm enough for the outdoors, but the roar of the tent’s fire made the woman feel comfortable enough. She sat next to her weapons, wondering when she would get to use them just as her father had. Zerith raised her head to see Eska peeking inside with a smile before entering carrying a bundle of fur.

“At least you are punctual this time,” she began with a mischievous glint in her eye, “especially since I have brought you a gift. These furs are exactly what any of my people would wear and they are well-suited for light combat.” She tossed the furs at Zerith’s crossed legs but the Gondorian woman ended up getting a faceful of fur instead.

With a brief flash of a half-grimace half-grin, Zerith stood and pulled the furs over her body. Eska had been right; they seemed to be very similar to what she was wearing, but Zerith felt _huge._ The fur collar made her stomach feel oddly nauseous and she could barely feel where her frame stood buried in the furs. Sweat began to develop on the back of her neck.

 

“May I begin training now?” Zerith asked the woman in the corner of the tent whose small face beamed up at her. “I am eager to learn as much as possible in the time I am given.” She hoped it sounded convincing enough, since she just wanted to get out of the scorching tent and into cold air where the fur would actually suit her.

“I thought you would never ask!” The short woman bounced up, hauling a few spears and javelins she had compiled in the corner. “I want to see you with those weapons too,” Eska said a bit quieter as she gestured down to where Zerith’s shield and sword lay glinting. Zerith hurried to stand and sheathe her sword as Eska bolted out of the tent and into the icy mid-morning air.

A light snow had fallen overnight, but it did not hinder the flocks of people and animals moving to and fro across the encampment. Zerith tried not to cross the paths of burly young men hauling sacks of food, women hurrying young children along the paths made by countless boots across the frozen earth, and the clattering of wooden practice swords as the mercenaries sparred each other. She nearly laughed upon seeing the men garbed in a similar outfit to hers, for they seemed to be in her state of waddling like a swaddled babe.

Eska took her to the corner of the encampment where the snow-wall glittered with freshly-hardened ice. There was a great chill here as only a few small storage tents flanked the other side of the pair. The fair woman set the spears and javelins against the ice-wall, picking up two spears and handing one over to Zerith.

It seemed only to be a practice weapon for the tip was crude and dull, but it felt heavy and unbalanced in Zerith’s untrained hand. She doubted she could carry it properly, let alone use it as a weapon.

When she looked up at Eska again, she had armed herself with a shiny buckler and a spear.

“Most Northerners fight with spears, so I want you to learn some basic defences against them. It will also be of use for you to learn to wield the spear and the javelin for yourself in case you somehow were disarmed or otherwise lost your sword. Not to mention, learning how to fight with a weapon can also teach you much about how to fight against that weapon! I will start off slow in our sparring. Don’t be afraid. Are you ready?” Eska inquired as she bounced on the balls of her feet. Zerith found it almost comical that a woman much smaller than her looked as ferocious as a warg. Much more charming, however. She nodded wordlessly in response.

Zerith did not have a moment to put on her best war-mind before the Tarakona woman lunged at the right side of her hip. Her winged shield and spear clattered against each other brutishly as she barely blocked the spear’s tip.

“Yes, that’s the first thing you’ll have to get used to: the length.” Eska giggled. “You must find balance within the spear and combine it with the familiarity of your shield. And a mighty shield it is! Does it have a name?”

“No, but my swor-” Zerith jumped back as Eska lunged with her spear-arm. Her own spear pushed it away but not as quickly as she liked. “My sword’s name is Foe’s Folly, and you may soon understand its name.” She flashed a ferocious grin at the smaller woman who only smiled almost mockingly in response.

“Your sword will never be any foe’s folly if you can’t use a spear to defend yourself long enough to switch to your sword! Either take an over-shield or under-shield stance with the spear instead of waving it around like a fishing pole.” Eska’s eyebrows furrowed though the corners of her mouths stayed curled up.

Zerith attempted to do as she said, making her grasp on the spear firmer and leaning with her shield-arm slightly. This time, when Eska tried to strike, Zerith was prepared. Eska’s spear hit the middle of Zerith’s shield and was easily brushed off with a forceful shrug. The Tarakona woman seemed to be pleased for she smiled, though she was wordless.

The pair continued to trade blows, though Eska was far more willing to try to injure Zerith than she was. Eventually she found enough courage in the foreign weapon to use it offensively, although few of her attempted attacks were worth any merit. Still, Eska seemed pleased enough with her efforts and made no further comments.

Eska told Zerith to switch to her sword, taking the spear from her and putting it back with all the others. As she unsheathed her sword, she noticed how much more power it seemed to hold as her muscles prepared to spar an opponent. They were already aching from not being used to spears as well as being slightly out of practice during Hassun and Zerith’s weeks of travel. She thumbed the sword’s guard idly as she looked up at Eska who was waiting patiently for her focus.

“It is a fine sword, that much is true,” Eska agreed with a nod, “but what truly matters is how you can use it.”

Zerith planted her feet firmly on the ground and raised Foe’s Folly above her shoulder and shield, pointing downward defensively. She could feel sweat trickling down her neck from their exertions as well as the thick fur that insulated her, but she paid it no mind.

Thus, the two began a dance of blows. Eska would lunge and Zerith would either parry or guard herself with her shield. Zerith would try for a thrust but Eska flashed her buckler or drew back to rely on her spear’s length. Any amusement on Eska’s face had been drained as she concentrated heavily. Zerith did just the same, wanting to learn and observe as much as possible about how the Northerners fought as she could.

She could barely remember the brief times that she had seen Hassun fight. What she was able to recall is that he fought far more boldly and unstructured unlike Eska, perhaps because of his place among his people or perhaps because he was an insufferably stubborn and almost reckless man. She could barely remember the events that had transpired in the many weeks of their travel. She could barely remember _him_ anymore.

Zerith’s mood soured and she longed to end their sparring by disarming the smaller woman. Real fighting would be much quicker, and she would have the warmth of her fire by her side, though she doubted she would dare to fully unleash it in the North. The main problem was that Eska seemed to be a bulwark of defense against Zerith’s seemingly tactless strikes. Zerith had never really dared to try to strike at her with her deadly-sharp weapon, but the fire that had been cooled by her concentration licked at her arms.

Just as Eska made a feint to move towards Zerith’s left side, Foe’s Folly was thrusted between Eska’s buckler and spear, straight towards the right of her chest. The tip of the blade was much too close for the woman’s comfort and she turned her spear towards the blade in surprise, but Zerith parried it away from her center and left her exposed. Eska’s grip on the spear was almost completely lost and she leapt back, eyes wide. Zerith’s sword slightly lowered but still pointed towards the woman’s chest.

“Yes, I think you might be fine with some more practice.” Eska closed her eyes and nodded fervently, brushing the strands of blonde hair away from her glistening face. “How about we have you try out javelins on something other than me?” She grinned sheepishly.

Zerith sheathed her sword and gave a small bow in response.

Eska led her a further distance down on the wall where straw practice dummies were set up along varying lengths. She took her place next to the Tarakona woman at the closest dummy and watched as Eska demonstrated how to properly wield the javelin. She threw a few as examples before allowing Zerith to test her own arm.

 The Gondorian woman was anxious at trying out _any_ ranged weapon. It had taken her years to even be half-decent with a bow, and her fire had too little length to be considered for long-range combat. Javelins might do, however.

The first dozen throws either wobbled in the air and missed or barely stuck in the dummy. Eska said nothing but silently encouraged the woman to continue. After a while, she began to stick the dummy deep enough so that the javelin rigidly pierced through the straw.

“Continue practicing until you get to that one,” Eska pointed to the furthest dummy, “and manage to kill it. I will be back.” Before Zerith could mutter a goodbye, the Tarakona woman disappeared behind her.

Dutifully, she continued to throw and retrieve the javelins. Her muscles ached fiercely, but she wanted nothing more than to perform well at a new skill. The sun began to lower in the sky, casting the ice-wall in a watery orange sheen. She could see guards change their shifts one by one, again and again, on the makeshift battlements towards the entrance of the camp. The area in which she practiced was secluded, but anyone close enough to see her gave her a curious glance as they passed.

She turned her face from the sun and focused on the furthest dummy, deciding she might have better luck spending the rest of the day hours practicing on it alone. Zerith doubted that Eska would be satisfied with anything else but a pincushion.

And a pincushion she turned it into. By the time Eska returned as the sky grew dark, half a dozen javelins were stuck close to the center of the dummy’s torso. Zerith lay on the cold ground staring up and the sky breathlessly, her eyes glazed over.

Eska leaned down, her freed hair tickling Zerith’s cheek. “I believe you have earned yourself a good meal and rest.” She offered a hand to help the exhausted woman up and laughed as she watched her trudge sleepily to their tent.

-o-

The next few days were filled with the same training, albeit with far better results with each passing day. Zerith’s muscles constantly protested each movement but she pushed on and focused on all that Eska had to teach her. She was becoming proficient with the spear and was happy to find that javelins would be her new companion instead of a nearly-useless bow.

Zerith attributed much of her successes not to the days of practicing, however, but the nights in which she slept deeply. She had not seen or heard from Gostir, but every night, the world of her dreams would materialize around her in misty colors reminiscent of the Northern lands in which she resided.

Zerith was witness to countless battles of the long past in which Satherra had fought. She saw the young girl spar with other Tarakona hopefuls along to the rhythm of Gostir’s wise words. The other children drifted away and everything the dragon hoped to teach fell down to her. Satherra began to hone her fire as well as her spear and javelins.

Satherra fought with such a focus and drive that Zerith felt almost envious. She could hold her own among much larger men or when outnumbered and never flinch. The Tarakona woman rarely used her fire breath and only to turn the tides when other members of her people were at risk during battles.

Chillingly, however, Zerith began to recall the single-handed slaughter of the other tribe that marked Satherra’s fall. The same hands that were used to protect her people also took innocent lives with glee. Zerith felt it sometimes as well when she practiced. There was a certain echo in the weapons that she feared. After long and arduous days of practice, Zerith would lie in her bedroll and fear just how much she was learning. She _knew_ she would sooner die than harm the lives of innocents, but just how much was in her control? And if someone as well-meaning as Satherra drowned in bloodlust that was meant to be utilized on behalf of her people, what could Zerith become?

Still, Zerith was proud to open up more weapon types for her usage. It also warmed her to pay a homage to the history residing deep within her. She tried to remember but not dwell on the somber and horrific memories marring Gostir and Satherra’s past together, and it affected her less and less as she trained. Every evening after practice, she would race off to the stables and tell Applegrabber of all her daily triumphs. The horse never seemed to be too enthused no matter what she did, but was content to receive an apple, attention, and a good brushing nonetheless.

One morning, Zerith rose to find that she was alone in the tent. She doubted that Eska would ever purposefully go back on her word of training without proper cause. Zerith was always eager to hone her newly-acquired skills but decided to take the morning to relax and observe the Tarakona people further.

After scrounging around for light breakfast foods in the Great Tent, she took to the ice-wall by the entrance of the camp. A few stools dotted the surface of the wall, which was covered in dirt and gravel so that the guards would have no risk of slipping. Zerith began to sharpen the practice spears and javelins, happy to be able to rest her feet as she sat on the stool. Most of the guards paid her no mind as they paced along the wall. The sun on the wall was warmer than she could have imagined, and she was glad to finally be getting used to being bundled in furs.

Footsteps approached behind her, and she stilled in her efforts.

“Zerith, I’ve been wondering when we would get to meet each other again!” She rested the spears and javelins on the surface of the wall and stood to face him. Mhafi peered up at the woman and shuffled on his feet rather boisterously for so early in the morning.

“It is good to see you as well, Mhafi. How are you and the other men enjoying your stays so far?” She smiled, easing herself into relaxing around her acquaintance.

“That’s what I came to talk to you about, actually. Would ye mind a stroll outside the camp for a bit of fresh air, just where the grass still grows?” He tugged on his beard expectantly with a hopeful yet bashful gleam in his eye. Outside of the camp seemed a bit suspicious, but Zerith reminded herself that she had brought her shield and sword along with her. And besides, Mhafi seemed like he could barely walk in all the furs which draped from his wide body.

“I would love that,” she replied politely, and the dwarf grinned as he turned and nearly leapt down the wooden stairs and out of the camp’s entrance. She was barely able to match his pace and ignored the bewildered looks the Tarakona gave the pair.

Mhafi trudged out into the clear sun of the morning and found the precise spot in which tiny blades of grass grew. He assumed a more leisurely pace once he glanced back at the camp to see Zerith hurrying along. Zerith’s eyes caught on the shadow of the mountains which made up the Withered Heath, as well as the long and clear horizon in front of them.

“I must say, my friend,” Mhafi began as he crossed his arms behind his back, “I do not care for this lull in action. I hoped we would get started right away. And they keep saying ‘tomorrow, the day after that...’ without an end! What do you think?”

“You must be patient,” Zerith advised, “for they are a patient people. The cold makes everything slower.” She smiled.

“And more than everything quicker!” He exclaimed. “As for the men and I, we are enjoying the Tarakona’s hospitality. Hassun has been keeping a close eye on us all and has made sure we are comfortable and active with our sparring. You look leaner already. I saw the Tarakona man speaking with the woman who trains you just this morning, perhaps about your skills?

Zerith turned her head away from him slightly as a blush began to form on her cheeks. “I do not know. We have not spoken much since he guided me here.” _Only a half-lie, really._ “His job is done, anyways. He found me and brought me here. Now he just has to make sure I’m able to fight for his people.”

Mhafi pondered for a moment. “I don’t doubt that, lass, but I can’t help but wonder if he has other concerns about you.” Her blood chilled and she could feel the warmth on her cheeks dissipate. _Other concerns? For good or bad? Or both?_ When Zerith did not respond for a long while, Mhafi stopped in his tracks and looked to the path ahead of them.

“You feel it too, don’t you, Zerith?” The dwarf asked as they stood and stared at the horizon. _To the sea._ Zerith noted as she remembered her experience with Gostir. “That...pull. Something calling you here. A sound that you swear you’ve never heard before, but then once you hear it, you remember it like an old lover?” She looked down at him.

“The Song of the North,” Zerith answered resolutely as she gripped her shield tighter.

“Aye, you could call it that. Say, what do think is out there yonder?” He pointed towards the horizon that they had been staring at. She understood what he was trying to get at, now. A sort of daydream of a guess about the certain nature of the world in all its uncertainties.

“A great sea. A thousand thousand bright faces waiting for your arrival as a hero. A call for you to be their _savior._ ”

As Zerith spoke, distant figures appeared on the horizon. The dwarf and woman stared and watched as more materialized. Blurred shapes divided into figures of people, people with faces and names and stories of their own to tell. All of them clothed in fur or leather. Some with their faces dyed, some whose ‘faces’ were so obscure they could only tell they were human due to standing on two legs. Weapons of all sorts were brandished in their hands but not in a threatening manner. Rather, to be able to raise it in salute or a rallying cry for wartime.  There were horses too of hardy make with every color dotting the ranks of the ordered peoples.

Soon, the army of the assembled Northern peoples stopped a few lengths before them. Mhafi looked up at Zerith’s face with a stupor and stared deeply into her eyes. She wondered if he had noticed how her words had seemed to ring true, although she could barely process what had just transpired herself. The dwarf’s eyes had a twinkle of wonder and delight. Did he see something that she tried so desperately to hide?

The snorting of horses shook the dwarf out of his trance and Mhafi ran back to the entrance of the Tarakona encampment to announce the arrival of the Lossoth and their companions. Zerith stood there as one person gazed at a thousand.

One of the rougher-looking men with a bald head and a long trailing mustache took a step forward. He peered up at the clear blue sky and to the faint makings of stars. Though his gaze was the only one untrained on her, she felt brazen enough to glance at the ring looped on a chain shining from behind the furs in which it was hidden.

She saw green and two serpents, and when she took her turn to look up at the stars, she saw them with _wings_ , soaring higher and higher along every peak and then above the highest.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> I wanted to get this chapter out earlier, but unfortunately have been hit by many college exams. (I hope to fix this formatting on a day when it's not 12:30 AM and i'm super tired). Finals week is next week and after that, winter break! I'm excited to have a lot of free time to work on this fic because a lot of events are soon to be happening in the next few chapters ;) stay tuned until then~


	10. A Lesson in Leadership

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Potential TW: sexual assault (non-graphic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, after a month passing since the last chapter was posted, I finally finished this one!
> 
> Yay me! *crickets*
> 
> I thought I would have plenty of time to write over winter break, which I did. What I did not expect was having literally no motivation to write. But I hope you at least enjoy this very late chapter. Good (in an interesting sense) things are to come in future chapters~
> 
> (Also, I've kind of given up on the formatting at this point. AOOO, why you hate me ;-;)

Chapter Ten: A Lesson in Leadership

 

“When my father said you were standing alone in front of the full host of our allies as well as the Lossoth’s chieftain, I thought you had _done something_.” Hassun muttered quietly as they walked towards where the bulk of the Tarakona and countless other clan members were moving towards. His firm grip on her forearm made her prickle.

“What did you think I was guilty of now, Hassun?” Her reply was weary and the fire was forced as her gaze focused on the path in front of them.

“Am I not allowed to be concerned for you? These are my people and my lands after all. I know them better than anyone. All I want to do is—”

“You want to protect me from everyone by treating me like an ignorant child. I do not need protecting, I am far from ignorant about your peoples, and I am a grown woman. What else would you like to do for me? Dress me? Feed me?” Zerith pushed his arm away from her and slowed as they reached a part of the camp isolated from many people, framed by stacks of crates, barrels, and sacks of food and other goods.

“I want to _help you_.” He stopped behind her and she hesitantly turned towards him, brushing her dark strands of hair away from her marred face. “You are surrounded by thousands of people, but without me, you are alone.” She took in the darkness in his eyes, the uneven stubble upon his chin and cheeks, and his oddly gaunt demeanor. Zerith imagined that she might have once prodded him to uncover what was truly wrong with him, but her concern was bubbling into anger and frustration. Her approaching steps towards him were predatory, and she only stopped when their noses were mere inches apart.

“Do you remember when you first met me and found out who I was? You were wise then, to keep me at a fair distance. You were guarded. Yet now you are weak, when your strength is needed most. Stop holding onto whatever thread of hope you see, for it was lost as soon as we arrived here. I have a duty, as do you. Let no one, not even yourself, stop you.”

As she stared into his eyes, she came to realize the gravity and harshness of her words. They felt true to her, but she knew that they had to have been wrong. Hassun’s eyes fell to her lips, but she said nothing more. She imagined for a moment that he might lean in but cursed herself and withdrew from him as soon as the thought formed in her mind. Her few steps back felt like miles.

Hassun’s expression hardened and lost all its emotion. It reminded her of how he had once been. She expected to prefer it. _It’s better this way_ , she told herself. _Keep everyone at a sword’s length and the dragon will never be poked._ But she did not prefer it at all. She wanted to see him alive with laughter again. Zerith remembered all the times she could conjure up a rare smile out of him. The warmth on her cheeks from their adventures would never return again, she knew. The past had gone and none of it could return. She wanted to be all that she could imagine, but most of her fantasies had fallen apart from the weight of blood.

She did not even notice him walk away, for her glistening eyes were trained on the ice-wall on the horizon. Suddenly she could no longer remember the time-frame in which she had just spoken to him. He felt far too distant for her to ever remember. A stranger, she realized. But she never felt melancholy over her invisible relationships with strangers.

“Ah, there you are,” Mhafi’s voice was muddy water behind her. “The chieftains of all of the little clans, tribes, and what-not have gathered in the big tent to discuss strategy for the coming days. Most of the men are already there, but I came to look for you.” She turned slowly to see him scratching at his beard and staring up at her pensively.

Zerith collected herself with an inhale and nodded. He offered an outstretched hand towards her.

“Come on, lass. This world is too cold to let your fire be snuffed out.” Her mouth twitched into a grin as she held back a laugh at the irony of his words. She placed her hand in his and let him lead her away from the cold and into waves of radiating heat.

-o-

The tent was oddly quiet for having been filled with drunken laughter and singing as it had been when Zerith first arrived at the Tarakona camp. The tribespeople sat upon worn fur rugs before the leaders of the North, watching in near silence as they debated the best strategy to free their peoples from the presence of evil.

                Zerith sat cross-legged on the outskirts of the ring next to Mhafi, who leaned forward upon his outstretched legs, his chainmail surcoat clinking softly against his knees. She could barely make sense of what was going on, for the leaders often spoke softly between themselves, either too softly to pick up or in a different language she could not comprehend. Mhafi would spare her long glances, showing he was just as puzzled as she. She kept her focus trained on the congregation, however, hoping to find some sort of understanding.

                Hassun stood behind his father and away from the chaos the leaders of the North were beginning to stir up. He seemed purposefully withdrawn, though she had imagined that he would have wanted to be active in the conversation. None of the other leaders seemed to bring their sons along, it seemed. But the only son present was barely there at all.

                The leaders took a few steps closer to each other and formed their own circle, and a chilling wave passed through the tent. The hushed whispers died off all at once, and Zerith spared a glance at Mhafi who reflected her own expression of worry. She craned her head to her right to look upon the other mercenaries. Again, the same flashes of anxiety, though many of them paid no attention to the leaders. Had they all been wrong to travel here? The stakes were high, though Zerith could not fathom just how worrisome they were.

                The scene around her swirled in hazy colors of sienna and glowing orange and she strained her eyes to focus on the great leaders before her. Their voices grew louder against one another, sounding grainy as they echoed around the immense gathering of people. Spatting in harsh guttural languages, Zerith only heard whispers of words she knew in between the noise.

_Fire…_

_Survival…_

_Slaughter…_

                She closed her eyes tightly and a shiver coursed through her body with a wince.

                “You alright, lass?” Mhafi whispered, resting his hand upon hers. She could only muster a nod in response. The look that flashed in his eyes told her he was not convinced, but he laid back on the packed earth and sparse fur rugs.

                The chieftains continued to yell back and forth until the blazing brazier behind them began to hush from the gusts of huffed breaths.

                Finally, they took several steps back away from their circle, each turning towards their people, who rose in turn. Zerith shook Mhafi’s arm lightly, who could not see what was beginning to happen over his beard and belly. The chieftains except for Chieftain Massak left the tent slowly, their tribespeople following. The tent grew much colder.

                “Each of the clans and tribes will build their settlements outside our walls. We will work with them to build a reinforced wall of protection on the borders of where they settle. Trenches will also be dug outside our gathering place with walls and towers surrounding them. Hunting, gathering, or otherwise leaving this newly-formed settlement will be restricted to granted permission. Weapons production and training will continue as normal. I will speak to each of our lead hunters, gatherers, and warriors about the days to come. As for our active motions,” Chieftain Massak paused as he motioned for Hassun to step forward, resting a calloused hand upon his son’s shoulder, “my son will lead the mercenaries as well as representatives of each of our guests past the Withered Heath and further into the North in search of our enemies tomorrow. May they be granted strength and shielding during these days to come, and may we all prevail.”

                Then the Chieftain stepped away, slinking into the growing shadows of the night that not even the strongest of dragonfire could quell. Hassun stood, staring into the midst of his people as many leapt to their feet and began to laugh, dance, and sing. Food and drink were brought out and displayed at the front of the tent but Zerith could scarcely catch a glimpse at what was being served before women, men, and children ran to crowd around the offerings. Many of the mercenaries were already clinking their drinks together and returning to their sleeping quarters or off to find trouble amongst the Tarakona. Mhafi was readily roused by the sight of ale being poured and rose to his feet.

                “Come on, lass, food’s a’waiting for your belly, and drink for this one!” He patted his rotund stomach as he bounced on the balls of his feet awaiting her with the offer of his hand.

                “I do not feel well anymore. I will ask Eska for provisions if I find myself hungry later.” She slowly stood and did not spare the dwarf a second glance before she wove through the stampede of hungry tribesmen to leave the waves of hot and cold of the Great Tent for the constant bitter chill of the Northern air.

                She found her way quickly back to Eska’s tent and quickly immersed herself in the furs of her bedroll, uncaring that she still wore her fur parka and boots. She shut her eyes after she could hear the outside noises over the sound of her hammering heart and tried her hardest to relax.

_Fire…_

_Survival…_

_Slaughter…_

The words echoed in her mind against each other like etchings on stone walls.

_How was it that I was able to hear bits and pieces among their chaotic Northern tongues? I wish I had time to figure everything out, or to even process it all. Today only has a few hours remaining, and I must sleep well and rise early to set out tomorrow. Tomorrow is so far and yet so close. What will we find past the lairs of drakes?_

_An opportune time for you to find my egg-shell,_ Gostir commented. She shook at the sound of his intruding voice in her mind.

 _I have a duty to perform first. We must win this war and save the people of the North before then. If I neglect my sworn tasks, I too may die and I will never get the chance to find and look upon the prophecy-stone._ She responded wearily.

_You may as easily die trying to ‘save’ all these people, Zerith. You may wield a sword and shield as well as my gifts, but you are no true seasoned warrior. What difference can you make among the thousands that will stand in waves, pushing and pulling each other like a bloody tide?_

_It is not about what difference I am able to make, it is what difference I_ do _make that matters. You came to the North to help its people all those years ago, did you not?_

_And they turned their backs on me and led to my death._

_And now I am turning your gaze back to them to give you back your life._

_So much like Satherra you are, yet so far away, as you always say._ Gostir sighed.

 _I am Zerith, daughter of Graywynd. And I will never willingly abandon anyone, for my people are the Free Peoples._ Zerith responded, wishing for him to leave her to the silence of the night.

 _Understand that you and I have different lengths we are willing to go to achieve our goals._ The silvery dragon warned her.

 _You are right. We are very different entities that share the same space._ Zerith agreed, rolling to her side.

_Understand its consequences._

“There you are!” Eska exclaimed as she entered the tent, carrying an armful of knapsacks, a mug of dark ale, and a bag of polished apples. “Your charming friend Mhafi said you disappeared right after our Chieftain left. I was looking for you everywhere. Did you get anything to eat and drink?”

“I did, I had- “Zerith’s stomach betrayed her with a loud grumble as she sat up and lifted her legs out of the bedroll.  Her cheeks reddened.

“I thought not.” Eska grinned at her, setting her mug down before the dark-haired woman and tossing her an apple, bread, and cheese from the packs. “Never lie to me, beloved ashen one.”

Zerith gulped down the ale thankfully. “’Beloved ashen one’?”

“Yes, it is the nickname I have given you for now. A few of the mercenaries and I were talking about you since you never seem to talk to anyone else but me. You’ve got this look about you, like you were too close to a fire and rubbed your cheeks with the ash of a long-dead flame. It’s the hair and the freckles, I am sure. The eyes, too. Nevertheless, take no offence by it. Although, in the future,” She knelt down before her and rested the bag of apples and knapsacks at her feet, “create your own name by interacting with others so that no rumors or anything you might find unsavory may be borne from your isolation.”

“Did you drink too much? You sound like an old instructor I had back in Minas Tirith. He looked like he should have fallen over dead centuries ago.” Zerith asked between bites of the apple. Eska began to laugh with hysteria, rubbing the tears from her face as they sprung.

“No, no. Although I take it that the position may be available?”

Zerith furrowed her eyebrows with a smirk at the blonde Tarakona woman.

“Anyways,” Eska’s face stiffened, “as you heard, you will be leaving tomorrow. Most likely at dawn at the latest, if I know Hassun correctly. I brought you the supplies that were rationed out to each of your companions, as well as a treat for Applegrabber. These should last you at least two weeks if you use them sparingly. Which, given that you are so close to being so pokingly bony, I know you will.” Eska crept behind Zerith to her own bedroll. Zerith finished the bread she had been given before resting the knapsacks and bag of apples by the rest of her gear. She removed her boots and returned to the confines of her bedroll, content to stay encased in her parka. Her body found it as a second skin.

“I will make sure you are awoken early enough so you are not left behind. It would make a bad impression on the tribes.” Eska said with a yawn, dousing the fire in the tent’s corner and plunging the tent into darkness.

“I should inform you that the ‘mother’ position is available. You seem well-suited for the job.” Zerith smirked.

“I do not have _that_ much time on my hands for such a rowdy child.” Eska laughed lightly before shifting in her bedroll. “Get plenty of rest for the road ahead. And Zerith? _Never forget who you are_.”

 

-o-

Zerith awoke to being shook roughly by the shoulders, and the tickle of long hair on her nose. She opened her eyes to see that it was blonde and immediately jolted up.

“I’m awake. Have I missed it? Did they leave without me?” Zerith began to scrabble for her gear before Eska grabbed her arms tightly and stopped her.

“No, you silly woman, you are awake just on time. Half the men are not even awake yet anyways. I took the time to clean your armor, horse, and weapons for you, and drew you a hot bath which you just almost fell into. Breakfast is on my bedroll. Now, I trust that you can manage for a while on your own.” Eska stared squarely into Zerith’s sleep-glazed eyes and gripped her shoulders to root her in place. The dark-haired woman nodded breathlessly, rubbing her shoulders and running a hand through her frazzled hair.

Eska dragged a tub of hot water into the tent before disappearing out into the snowy air. Zerith diligently got to work scrubbing herself until her skin was rosy, braiding her hair back away from her face. She dressed quickly, donning her leather armor and fur parka. Scarfing down breakfast quickly, she made sure she had not left any weapons or gear behind before trotting out into the clear morning breeze. She quickly made her way to the stables but stopped at the sound of her name.

 “Zerith, a moment?” Eska’s voice was bright and hurried behind her. Zerith rested her pack at her feet and turned to see a mass of blonde hair flowing in the breeze. Eska’s pale hand shot up to brush her free locks away from her face. She held a massive bundle in her arms covered with elk hide and tied tightly together with rope.

                She stood close to Zerith as the bundle shifted in her hands, her eyes slightly downturned and hesitant. “I made these for you,” she thrusted the bundle towards Zerith who gingerly accepted it, “as a gift. I am glad to have met you, no matter what happens in these coming days. I know that we are nearly strangers, but after my family died during our travels to these lands, I was completely alone. I have come to see you as almost a sister, in a way.” Her face began to beam with a growing smile. “There has been something wearing on your mind. Almost everyone can see it. No matter what, know that you have someone who cares about you.”

                Zerith stared into her eyes, unblinking for the longest time. Her hands, which cradled the large bundle, began to shake. Eska’s smile grew, and she motioned for the Gondorian woman to open the bundle. Zerith did so, feeling almost in a trance. She knelt down on the snowy ground and began to unfurl the bundle.

                A spear and collection of javelins were revealed. The spear’s shaft was made of dark wood, its deadly metal tip curved and faded to a sharp, precise point. Its design was simple yet exquisite, with the near end sporting grooves for where she would maneuver her hand to grasp it. The javelins were of the same quality albeit thinner so that they would fly swiftly through the air.

Zerith looked up slowly to meet Eska’s expectant face. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“No matter what happens,” Eska began, her voice growing dim, “I believe you shall always have a place in the North.”

“I appreciate that very much, and I hope to wield these weapons as well as you have trained me.” Zerith stretched the loops on the back of her rucksack and slipped the spear and javelins in, noting how the Tarakona had designed them to hold everything a typical warrior might need. She would have to carry her shield or hook it to Applegrabber’s tack, but as long as she had it at her side, Zerith decided she would never groan at its weight.

Straightening herself, Zerith saw Mhafi’s hand darting through the air a few paces away from where the two women stood. Zerith flashed him a small smile in return, and turned to embrace the small blonde woman tightly.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Zerith rumbled next to her ear. Eska did not respond with words, only with boisterous laughter. It was a lingering embrace, both wishing they had more time to enjoy the simplicities of life with a new companion. Finally, however, Zerith broke away and straightened her gear, smoothing her braided black hair behind her head and nodding resolutely to Eska.

The mercenaries were saddling their horses and Hassun was nowhere to be seen when Zerith jogged over, smacking Mhafi lightly in the shoulder in greeting. She paused to watch the members of the other tribes bickering in their languages with each other, while some of the more jovial-looking mercenaries watched with grins. In the haze of the morning, Zerith could not pick out any of the words like she had the previous night. She supposed it was for the best, otherwise she would be pondering their meanings forever. More likely, however, she would translate filth or obscenities that would make her wish she had stayed in her bed roll.

She did not spare another moment before turning to her beloved horse waiting expectantly in his stall with a shuffle of his hooves. She quickly began to saddle Applegrabber, who she noted was far more well-groomed than he had often been in her care, though not from a lack of trying. She said another thank-you to Eska, willing herself not to turn her head towards where she had last been.

“Where’s your pony, Mhafi?” She called out, listening to the scraping of steel as he polished his axe.

“Don’t have one, lass.”

Zerith paused, her mouth twisting into the beginning of a grin.

“Well, you aren’t riding with me. I won’t be stopping every half-mile to pick you up after you’ve fallen off the back of my mount. Not to mention Applegrabber is quite picky with his riders. Do they not have goats or even boars in the Iron Hills as I have heard in many tales?”

“I tried to get one, I did! But they would never lend one to a lone dwarf who’s lost his mind thinking the world outside the underground is worthy of adventure. Too costly, you see. I walked all the way from the Iron Hills to Dale, can you believe it?” He reasoned with a huff.

“I cannot believe it. I am surprised your legs did not fall off. So, what exactly do you plan on using for transport in the North?” She asked him, peeking around Applegrabber as she worked to gaze upon the dwarf.

“Well, I had the idea that you…”

“Please do not get me involved in this.”

“…could tie a tarp and basket to Applegrabber’s rear and drag me along. Strap me in first, of course. It could be a mighty invention!”

Zerith smacked her forehead into Applegrabber’s flank, suppressing a laugh. The horse snorted in response, and Mhafi reached into his pack and produced an apple for the beast.

“You will just have to run beside us then. Just how much time to create this invention do you think we have? If I know Hassun, he would have wanted us to have departed by now. Speaking of the man, where is he, anyway?”

“He did not tell you of all people? He is already out there, scouting for the enemy and for a place where we can establish ourselves.”

Zerith paled.

-o-

Zerith, the stubborn dwarf, and the rest of the mercenaries rode in the glowing warmth of the dawn. The woman was trying her best to ignore Mhafi’s squeals of joy in his seat behind her upon Applegrabber. The more she closed her eyes to try and shut him out, the more it began to sound like a pig was strapped to her mount. She rubbed at her temple and decided to laugh along with him.

One of the mercenaries from Rohan was leading the group as they rode, for he had been the first to rise alongside Hassun before the sun rose. It seemed odd to Zerith how she had quickly forgotten the irregular sleeping patterns and early travels when she and Hassun travelled together. Then again, it seemed odd how she had quickly forgotten about much of him altogether.

“If you fall,” Zerith called back to Mhafi, “I’m leaving you behind. You cannot bribe Applegrabber with anymore apples or he will get as fat and slow as you.”

“’Fat and slow’? Must I remind you I walked all the way to Dale from the Iron Hills with just me and my trusty axe, and a picture of my wife to warm my nights? The portrait was stolen off of me by some pickpocket in Dale while I was lying by the pigs, drunk as ever. A’ shame, given how much danger lies before us.” Mhafi replied, tightening his grip on the saddle below them to keep from sliding off.

“You have a wife? Everyone believes that female dwarves don’t exist.”

“Of course they exist! How else would we make more dwarves?” He scoffed in mock offense.

“The biggest rumor in Minas Tirith is that dwarves are made out of rock and you mine them out. No wonder you are all so attached to your cave-dwellings and underground kingdoms!” Zerith fibbed.

“If that was true, there would be a lot more of my kin.” He sighed. “Ah, you’re just trying to get me to shut up, aren’t ye’? You’re all peace and quiet, and no fun.”

“I am fun when fun is warranted,” Zerith huffed as she urged Applegrabber forward to catch up with the rest of the mercenaries that she was trailing.

“And when is it ‘warranted’ to you?”

“When there is a time of peace and no bloodshed. No wars to be fought or blades to be bloodied.” She leaned forward away from the dwarf’s warmth.

“Just as I said. All peace and quiet-like, no fun. Because to you, fun will never come.”

“I intend to _make_ it come to Middle Earth. Isn’t that what noble warriors say? That they will fight the greatest enemies of all, and bring prosperity and justice to their kingdom?” Zerith asked, raising her hood in the chill winds that rose as they rode beneath the Withered Heath’s watchful gaze.

“And just how many of those noble warriors accomplished what they went out into the big wide world for, lass?” Mhafi yelled as a whirling gust scattered flakes of snow before them.

“Now you’re sounding like an old acquaintance of mine,” Zerith chuckled. _Gandalf’s an acquaintance, right? Can you really be friends with an Istari wizard? Seems a bit lofty._ “I prefer you when you’re drunk.”

“Soon you’ll grow to love me then!” He outstretched his arm forward beside her body, and she followed its end to Applegrabber’s nose. Beyond, the mercenaries and Northmen were stopped and dismounted from their horses at the entrance of a cave in the mountainside. Hassun stood just outside the glistening opening, a torch brandished in his hand.

Applegrabber slowed as he approached the group, stopping just outside of the gathering. Zerith dismounted from her trusty companion, being mindful of the dwarf in the back. Brushing more of her unruly hair into her fur hood, she watched as the dwarf wrestled in the saddle, attempting to orientate his short legs. Applegrabber began to snort, and Zerith offered her hand to the stubborn dwarf. He began muttering to himself, but at the sound of her voice uttering his name softly, he looked up. Grudgingly, he accepted her hand and Zerith helped him from her mount, steadying him when he stumbled on the smooth snow-packed ground.

As she slowly approached the group, she heard the Northmen arguing again, but this time their voices were far more serious. She caught a common tone in all of them: fear. To the mercenaries, however, it seemed to be yet another spectacle. Her eyes met Hassun’s, who only shook his head softly in confusion while the group waited for the men to cease their argument.

The first man was short and dark of skin, his face painted with thin black lines that accentuated his beady black eyes. He seemed to be the most light-hearted of the Northmen. She watched the way his gloved hands flailed in the air as he spoke with the others listening to him impatiently. They barely let him speak before yelling more phrases at him and to each other. Against her better judgement, she closed her eyes and focused on their words.

 _Treasure…_ The first man said. Was it about the cave?

 _Danger…_ The others insisted. _Foolish man…_ Between the words, she picked up a slurry of Northern insults which she could not comprehend.

 _The cave is old…_ Surely it should be quite old, Zerith thought. She could hear faint sounds of dripping water from the highest points inside the cavern, which took moments before being muffled against the cavern’s floor. She felt Mhafi shaking her shoulder but squeezed her eyes tighter.

_Fire…_

_Dragon…_

_…Satherra._

Zerith opened her eyes and _knew._ Yes, how could she not have felt the _pull?_

Mhafi shook her shoulder more fervently and she looked down at him.

“You okay, lass?” He whispered. She nodded slightly.

“Zerith,” Hassun said, and she nearly jumped out of his parka. It felt like an eternity since she had heard him say her name. But his eyes were all business and she saw nothing of the softness he once would have shown her. Perhaps he was trying to follow her ‘lesson in leadership’ after all, she thought solemnly. “come with me. I must ensure this cave is safe enough to set up camp in. The rest of you, keep watch and try to keep these men from blows.” The men shuffled their feet and some sat down to laugh with their fast friends. A few approached the Northmen and began to try and reason with them to little success.

She felt warm breath tickling her shoulder, and turned to Applegrabber, diligent as always. She retrieved her spear and javelins, slotting them into her pack and adjusting her balance at the shift in weight upon her back. Her hand was gripped tightly around her dragon-wing shield as she handed the reins to Mhafi.

“Remember what I said about the apples,” she warned him with a small smile that betrayed her.

“You don’t have to be worrying about me, Zerith. I’ll be keeping him in good company!” He grinned up at her. As she turned and walked away, she heard Applegrabber sneeze and the sputtering of a dwarf. _Good company, indeed._

Joining Hassun’s side, his torch nearly blinded her vision as he gave her a curt nod and turned to enter the cave. A part of her had always wondered what became of Gostir’s lair in the North, and now she would find out.

Zerith felt tempted to close her eyes and find her way into the cave unburdened by her senses as Satherra once had, but Hassun was far too close to her for her to mimic her leaps without knocking into him. She let her eyes follow the trails of light across the ice walls and dark stone, eroded with the passage of time. She squeezed through the narrow entrance, following the glow of Hassun’s torch as she took in the scenery.

Like it had when the great dragon once inhabited it, the cave grew much warmer as the two delved deeper into it, until the entrance widened into the main hall. The enormous skylight still lit the clearing, and as she gazed up at the ashy-white sky, she could almost imagine Gostir slinking into the cave and unleashing waves of radiating heat as he sank comfortably on his modest treasure-pile.

Sadly, the treasure-pile was no longer, picked at by scavengers, daring children, or hapless adventurers. A deep black pit lay in the middle of the cavern where he once slept, chipped away by the wind, his countless treasures, and the chain-like security of his silvered scales. Only a few small pieces of jewelry and silverware remained scattered on the smooth stone floor.

“You had that knowing look about you,” Hassun said softly as he began to patrol around the edges of the cavern, stopping beside her as she stared up at the skylight.

“This was Gostir’s lair, where he rested and taught Satherra,” Zerith murmured, keeping her eyes trained on the snowy sky.

“I had that suspicion, as did the other Northmen, I would guess.” He replied softly. “It seems safe enough. The treasure has long been scavenged by the foolhardiest of Northmen, and most others are too superstitious. We of the North always remember our past.”

A glint of white and silver caught her eye, and she shifted her focus to the corner of the cavern.  She crossed the empty pit and found a smooth opal, whose myriad of colors caught the light of the winter sun as she turned it in her hands. She found the pendant with the silver chain too, and as she held the opal above where it had been so cruelly dislodged, she heard Hassun’s approaching footsteps behind her.

“What have you got there?” He asked, raising his torch to illuminate the both of them.

“This was Satherra’s mother’s necklace. A gift to where when she was married. She gave it to Gostir after pledging her life to his teachings, and broke it when he left her during her downfall.” She told him, the glistening of her blue eyes hidden in the cascades of her hair. “It should be yours, now, to give to the woman you will one day marry. Treasures like these should always remain among the Tarakona.” Before he could protest, she took his free hand and closed the opal and broken pendant inside of it, ignoring how his hands felt scorching compared to her own. His gaze broke, and he opened his hand just enough to look upon the pendant. Hassun stared at it for a while before lifting his head slightly towards her.

“That they should,” he whispered, raising his head to fixate his oddly somber stare on her. She felt like she had betrayed herself again as she looked at him, but knew that her heart could not stay frozen among the North forever, especially in the days to come.

“It is safe.” Zerith said, breaking the pair out of their trance. The words were heavy in her mouth. Hassun blinked a few times before setting his eyes on his feet.

“Indeed it is. I will let the others know.” He flashed her a rare smile which she returned without hesitation. It remained on her face even as his warmth faded and he left her side.

Alone, she took in the empty cavern, knowing it would never feel as close to her heart with other people as it did now.

 _Closer to our goals, and yet so far._ Gostir rumbled. She sighed.

 _Every footstep is closer. But I won’t betray myself. You are only a part of me._ Zerith replied, wishing he would have said nothing, for she felt her loyal companion, melancholy, begin to seep in again.

_A part of you which you cannot live without._

The snorting of horses echoed throughout the cavern, and she turned to face the cave entrance, watching in stillness as Hassun led his horse and the other men into the cave. Most of the horses did not seem keen on being in such a tight environment, for the entrance was barely wide enough for them to breathe without feeling suffocated and skittish. Still, they managed to be led inside the cavern’s warmth after some coaxing and tugging.

The Northmen, however, were shaking in their boots. They clung closely to their horses as they dragged their feet, eyes constantly twitching. She supposed she could not blame them. If any of the other men knew who once lived here, or rather, _what_ once lived here, they would never have entered so willingly.

Mhafi was the last to enter the cave, leading a strangely placid Applegrabber behind him. He smiled as soon as he saw her and gave a friendly wave which she returned. _This dwarf will be the death of me._ He stopped next to Hassun and began to unload the packs and tack off of Applegrabber. She watched as all of the other men did the same, and realized she was still standing there dumbly.

“What did you do to my horse?” Zerith asked as she approached Applegrabber, stroking the side of his neck as he rested his head heavily on her shoulder. She peered over her horse and watched Mhafi, who was whistling boisterously as he worked to set out their two bedrolls. Hassun paused for a brief moment to watch the woman and dwarf. Zerith could only give the smallest of smirks, and he shook his head and went back to his own horse.

“Nothing but giving him some kindly companionship, lass.” Mhafi ceased whistling and began to hum instead.

“You could not have done just that. He has never been so calm and tranquil. Did you switch the waterskin with your hefty supply of ale?” Zerith furrowed her brows at him, worrying for her poor horse, who she always preferred to have just as much grit as she did. Applegrabber closed his eyes as she rubbed his velvety nose, and she shook her head with a sigh of frustration.

“I would never do that! Wouldn’t want to see you drunk, after all. I don’t think anything could be an improvement.” He laughed. “I understand, lass. You just can’t accept the fact that your beloved horse could like anyone as much as you.”

“He doesn’t like anyone except for me,” she corrected, rubbing her forehead to disperse the headache that was quickly beginning to form.

“Things change quickly in the presence of dwarves, what more can I say?” Mhafi bellowed, patting his belly. He laid out their bedrolls and unhooked the saddle from Applegrabber, letting the horse shake free the aches and chills the Northern lands let creep into the otherwise fiery horse.

Zerith sighed and did not respond, resting her shield on the ground and slipping off her pack, taking care to not bump herself with the spear and javelins. _I feel like a bloated sow._ She looked down at the thickness of her fur parka, and drew back the hood, tying her hair up with a ribbon. _I look like a bloated sow._ Mhafi whistled at her, and she turned to receive a heavy bundle of firewood.

“Food for the fire,” he explained at her blank stare. She turned to the empty pit and set the logs down carefully, willing herself not to look up at the beauty of the sky. There were too many memories in this cave for her, and the more she pretended like it was just another hideaway that she and Hassun might have once shared during their travels, the more the chill of the past faded away. The other men began bringing the wood from their loads and piling it on top, as well as spreading smooth flattened stones around the perimeter of the logs that would be suitable for cooking if need be.

Knowing that she needed to look the part of a perfectly normal and not-at-all troubled mercenary, she took a small piece of flint from her pack and attempted to light a fire. _Would just be easier to use my fire-breath._ Her hands were clumsy and her frustration grew, but eventually a lone flame was produced on the top log of the pile, slowly creeping along the other logs until Zerith felt it was worthy of being called a true campfire.

The mercenaries eagerly bounded over to the fire, removing their gloves and warming their hands as their chatter began. She shook out her anxieties and knots from her travels as she walked back to her bedroll, sitting cross-legged and eating a small sample of dried meats from her pack.

“Right at home,” Mhafi sighed as he removed his boots and guzzled down ale from his personal ‘waterskin’, before crawling into the warm furs of his bedroll and resting his head back to stare at the skylight. _Oh, Mhafi. If you knew who lived here, the dragon would eat those words right out of your mouth._ Zerith smiled at him introspectively. “What’s with the pit and the scattered trinkets, though?” He asked.

“This cavern was once used by exiles and treasure hunters. It is too remote now to be used by anyone, which is all the better for us.” Hassun answered, loud enough for all the mercenaries to hear. Zerith watched as the Northmen’s frowns deepened, but she doubted they could understand him well enough anyways.

“All of the North is a treasure, lass.” Mhafi said as he nodded, finding Hassun’s response acceptable enough as he stroked his beard. “Crystal skies and glimmering caves. Beautiful rugged women of the North. A wide expanse of snow. The whisper of a great sea farther north than anyone has set themselves upon for ages. And drakes, of course. The bane of all of my kin.” She turned to him as he spoke, the swell of her worries sinking into the depths of her stomach.

“In the Iron Hills, I was a record-keeper. A record-keeper! Can you believe it, Zerith? I kept track of all the dwarven settlements in Middle Earth. Few and far between, as I am sure you know. The prosperity of our people is fading, lass. I always wondered why more of my kin did not venture out to the unexplored and settle there. The North, for example. Yes, there are drakes, and hefty rumors of savage Northmen that will use your bones as toothpicks, but it’d be an adventure nevertheless! So I decided, rather than me always wondering about what waits out there, I would take a little adventure for myself.

So off I went, before my wife could think of some absurd plan to keep me chained forever. Went to Dale, waited around until I found where I was meant to go. I drank so much, I spun around in a daze and fell straight on my rump! And do you know what direction my beard pointed towards? The North! I met one of the Tarakona scouts and off I was, to find me a Northern Jewel! Whether it be a story, a great battle, or a treasure, I want something that the wife and I can be proud about claiming as our own family legacy.

Now, a’course I’ve had some troubles along the way already. The Tarakona Clan-Mother kept asking me all about my business, why I had decided it was worth risking my life to come to the barren lands, and all that nonsense. She even said my beard was too shiny! How can a dwarf’s beard be too shiny?”

“I don’t know, Mhafi, I don’t know,” Zerith yawned as she squeezed herself into her bedroll, nuzzling into its soft lining and closing her eyes.

“You’re going to sleep already? We just arrived!”

“The sun is already going down. And you talked for so long, I felt like I was in a dream.” She opened one eye to see Applegrabber leaning down and licking the crown of the dwarf’s tattooed bald head. He did not notice for a moment until she began to laugh. He turned and flashed a look of confusion before leaping up, his legs still in his bedroll. He fell over and began to crawl desperately away from the horse. Zerith looked up at Applegrabber, who whinnied in disappointment.

“What was that for?” Mhafi hissed at the horse, who turned away from the dwarf and went back to minding his own business.

“You fed him so many apples, he mistook your head for one. Very shiny.” Zerith replied with a grin at his misfortune.

“You and the Clan-Mother’s ‘too shiny’ comments! Forget what I said, the North was the wrong direction for me to go!” He scrambled to lay down next to her, and rolled fitfully on the ground, his bedroll balled up at his ankles.

“Sleep well, Mhafi.” Zerith murmured over the sound of his disjointed mutterings. She closed her eye again, allowing the sounds of the mercenaries to drown in the crackle of the roaring fire. _Dragons sleep long, and deeply._

-o-

It was cold. She was propped up on her hands and knees on the cracked ground, the skin on her fingers being torn from the stony mixture of dirt and ice. The wind whipped around the snow. There was no sun as she looked up into the frozen sky. All she could see was grey.

She felt the piercing warmth of hands wrapping themselves around her lower abdomen and neck. She looked down to find that she was naked. For a moment she struggled to get to her feet, but her legs were wrapped tightly around a warm figure.

A wave of surging heat and pleasure fell over her, and she closed her eyes as her back arched. For a moment, the frigid world around her was forgotten. The hands skimmed up her body, across her breasts, and tangled in her dark hair.

Suddenly, her head was yanked back and the hand around her neck squeezed. Her eyes shot open tearfully and stared up at the grey haze. The ice froze her hands in place as she began to gasp for air in vain. Warmth dissolved into a bitter chill, filling her desperate lungs with nothing but ashes and soot.

Her head bobbed down limply, hair fanning her blue-tinged face as it was released. The hand moved to squeeze at her hip and she nearly collapsed as its nails bit into her skin. Her feet had become frozen and rooted too; she felt cold pressure where there had been scorching heat and she cried out into the open air as it entered her.

She looked down at the arm which clutched her neck. Its skin was taut and sinewy, a sickening blue-grey whose lack of heat caused the whirling snow to gather on it. She felt bile rise in her throat. There was a hollow feeling in her stomach, a hole where she would never be complete again.

She craned her head back to look at the figure, and screamed.

-o-

It was cold. Zerith woke from her nightmare, sweat dripping down her brow. The campfire was still roaring but she felt like she could never get warm. Peering down at her body, she was glad to see she was clothed comfortably in her parka within the recesses of her bedroll.

She looked around. Mhafi slept soundly in his bedroll next to her with a snore, as was her horse. Hassun was nowhere to be seen, but his horse remained. The rest of the men were all asleep except for two who guarded the cavern entrance. They were from Rohan, sitting and playing a game with pebbles in silence.

Her hand shakily made its way down to her abdomen. She felt fine. Alright as she could be, after her nightmare. But she looked again to Hassun’s empty bedroll, and quietly wriggled out of her own, rising to her feet unsteadily. She would not be able to fall asleep again, not for a long while.

The two men regarded her with only a simple glance upward as they played their game.

“Where is Hassun?” Zerith asked quietly.

“Out scouting.” One man replied, not looking up again. “He said he believed that there might be an enemy stronghold around here, or at least a sign of them. He said he would be back before dawn broke.” She looked up at the skylight and saw a starless black night.

“And how long has he been gone?” She asked, feeling the fire rise in her chest in agitation.

“About an hour,” The other man responded.

“You fools,” Zerith snapped, and they both paused to look up at her, brows furrowed. “You let him go out there without his horse or anyone else? He is our _leader_.” She went back to her bedroll, sheathed her sword, pulled her pack tightly around her, made sure her spear and javelins were secure, and gripped her shield. Hearing the frantic motions of his mistress, Applegrabber raised his head, but Zerith shook hers at him. She lit a torch bundle and held it tightly in her hand.

“Hardly a leader, if you ask me. Hasn’t proven himself yet.”

“I wasn’t asking you.” Zerith hissed as she returned to the cavern entrance, standing before the two men with her arms crossed. “And if neither of us is back before dawn breaks, you and the others will go looking for us. That is a command.” She trudged past them, her fur shoes crunching on the scattered pebbles. “Enjoy your game.”

                Slipping through the cracked cave entrance and into the blackness of night, Zerith crouched to look for any footprints Hassun made. There were faint wide ones which she recognized, but as she followed their trail with her eyes, she knew he had travelled a long way already. She did not have much time.

                Zerith squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on her surroundings until she could no longer hear the hammering of her heart, only the whipping of the wind. She covered her hair with her parka, and inhaled deeply.

                She could _smell_ him. Impossibly faint on the wind, but she knew it to be him nevertheless.

                _You said dragons were keen of smell and hearing…_ Zerith realized.

                _Sight as well, though it will not serve you in this darkness._ Gostir replied. She understood.

Taking in a deep breath again, she confirmed that it was not her midnight hallucinations, but a true feeling of navigation. There were other scents on the wind, tangy and blood-slick ones that left a poor taste in her mouth. Worry began to form a knot in her stomach. There was no time to waste.

She dropped her torch in the snow that was forming, extinguishing it with her boot. Then she, eyes squeezed tightly shut and nose chilled, began to jog as fast as she was able to without expending much energy in case she approached danger. Which, given how foolhardy Satherra had once been to run blindly for a great distance, was likely.

All she could hear was the wind and her own footsteps as she flew through the snow. She cursed her judgement to not bring Applegrabber, feeling perspiration begin to form on the back of her neck. She would have still been able to use her senses, but she doubted she would have ever been able to trust him as much as she trusted herself in the moment. Applegrabber was her beloved horse, but he had not been gifted with the same dragon-senses that she had.

 _You are a true fool,_ Gostir murmured as she huffed. Zerith did her best to not let his words gnaw on her mind, but after a few minutes it grew to be unbearable.

 _Long ago, you told a young girl to close her eyes and find you, all by herself._ Zerith replied.

 _I never directly said those words,_ the dragon dodged, _but I wanted her to forget what had always been her bane: emotion. Had she attempted to find me with eyes open, she would have succumbed to frustration. It is not enough to know how to wield fire, but to also know how to temper your flame. For that lesson, you have already understood it far better than her. Still abysmal, but far better._

 _Thank you for your encouragement._ Zerith replied exasperatedly.

_Of course, one must also know to look before they leap. Like now, for example._

She wrenched her eyes open to see a blaze of lights above roughly-hewn wooden walls. _The enemy encampment_. Zerith could barely make out the figures of guards standing in makeshift towers, but she knew that they would be as watchful as they could be in the darkness and approaching snowstorm. It was a wide encampment, and she could hear the laughter and scraping of swords echoing inside. Zerith could not guess just how many warriors the clan or tribe had, but she knew she and Hassun were greatly outnumbered no matter what.

Slinking away from the glow’s perimeter, she began to slowly creep around the outskirts of the camp, ever watchful for any sudden movements of the guards or for Hassun. His unique scent still filled her nostrils, and strongly. She knew he _had_ to be here, and she would find him, no matter what.

Zerith eventually found him towards the back of the encampment, hugging the wall and peering through a small gap in it. He kept tightly to the wall, and the guard could not see him without leaning down. The wind was calm, and the guards were not on alert, at least in the meantime. She stood in the blackness as she waited for the guard to turn or move away from his sentry position. When he did, she snuck over to Hassun’s side as quickly and quietly as possible.

Her sudden presence at his side nearly caused him to jump.

“What are you doing here? How did you find me?” He whispered in her ear, keeping one eye trained on the crack in the wall where the light shone brightest.

“I came to save you from your stupidity, and never mind about that. What are _you_ doing here, all alone?” She asked him, crouching low.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He responded, looking back into the gap in the wall. “Here they come. Look.” He moved over so she could get a look inside the camp.

Her view of the interior was extremely limited, but she was able to see two men exiting a pitched tent. Zerith’s blood chilled as she immediately recognized the first man; it was the Easterling they had both seen in Lake-Town. He was speaking in a Northern language to the second man, whose tan skin and fur jerkin marked him as one of the Northmen. He seemed plain enough except for the scar across his nose dividing his face nearly in half.

Hassun moved her away softly so he could look again, and he focused intently on the conversation between the two. After a while, he cursed underneath his breath.

“I cannot understand a word they are saying.” It was her turn to move him slightly, giving herself enough room to sit leaning against the wall, her head pressed against it and her ear beside the crack in the wall. He said nothing more, but kept his eye trained on the wall.

She pushed past the racing of her heart and the warmth he emitted just for a moment to listen.

 _The Master…_ the Easterling began, _…not pleased. Your progress is not quick enough._

 _Poor weather has left His loyal ones scattered,_ the Northman explained.

 _The Master accepts no excuses. There will be no room left in the New World for the weak._ The Easterling hissed.

 _…need more men…_ The Northman insisted, _…sickness and disease…His Gift has been too strong on some…_

Hassun’s hand squeezed her own lightly. She was sweating again, but strained further to be able to understand.

 _…orcs…_ Her heart pounded at the Easterling’s words. _…fill the ranks…control the North and allow for them to stay…_

 _Orcs? Among us?_  The Northman bristled with worry at his words. Even he was skeptical.

 _Remember your promise. Do whatever it takes, and you will be rewarded. And what better reward is there than control of the North, and a part in the New World?_ The Easterling asked, his rough voice twirling with guile.

 _How long?_ The Northman asked, and her blood chilled.

 _They will be ready. A few days’ time. And then the North will be yours._ The Easterling hissed.

_Mine, and our Master’s._

_Yes, do whatever it takes._ She heard the treacherous smile creep up the Easterling’s voice.

 _Whatever it takes._ The Northman agreed, but hesitantly. Then the voices faded.

“We need to go,” Zerith whispered to Hassun.

“Were you able to…understand them?” He asked in a whisper, looking down at her in bewilderment.

“A gift from Satherra, I’d imagine.” She replied briefly, her hand slipping from his. He offered her a hand, and she rose to her feet. They stood beneath the wall’s shadow just out of sight of the guard.

“We can talk about what you heard when we’re out of harm’s way. How are we going to get out?” He asked her, scratching his head as he looked up towards the guard tower. They could not see when the guard was standing there looking out, and they would easily be spotted if they tried to run. _But if the guard can’t see us…_ A smile formed on her face, much to Hassun’s confusion.

She turned to him. “Do you trust me?”

He did not respond for a moment. “Yes, I do. I do trust you.” His breath was warm upon her face as they pressed close to each other in the shadow of the wall. She could not make out the contours of his face, but she saw the glimmer in his eyes and knew that he was telling the truth.

“Then follow me.” Zerith offered her hand to him. She had spurned him away for both of their sakes. She knew that she had broken their friendship, but she would not break their companionship or his faith within her. Zerith needed him, and Hassun needed her. Without hesitation, he placed his palm in hers.

Zerith turned slowly towards where she guessed the guard’s line of sight must have been. _By the Valar, I hope this works._ She inhaled slowly, allowing herself to forget the fires that had been built and snuffed away over the passing weeks. This was no time to remember her anger or her sadness. It was a time to let go. As she did so, a cloud of smoke began to cloud the air until she could no longer see the guard tower, nor the illumination of the fires inside the encampment. And if she could not see anything in front of her, she hoped that the guard would not be able to either.

Giving Hassun’s hand a light squeeze, she closed her eyes and began to run, tugging him along with her. She imagined how silly they would look in broad daylight, running like crazed fools in the snow and dirt of the North. But in the blackness, the only thing that she could rely on was her dragon-bestowed senses. As much as she despised letting Gostir have further control over her, he did save her life in Minas Tirith. And now he was potentially saving both her life and Hassun’s. Zerith wondered just how far Gostir could control her, however. How far were they---was he---willing to go to be free of each other? And what would happen to her in the aftermath of the dragon’s fight for freedom?

They ran around the perimeter of the camp and back to where Zerith had initially spotted the glow of the encampment. Deeper through the darkness, she dragged him along. She remembered where she had walked well enough, and was searching for a new scent to let them follow it how through the black night.

“Let me light a torch, Zerith. We are far enough away.” Hassun insisted, tugging her arm back. She stopped and opened her eyes, finding it no brighter.

“They may be looking for us after seeing the strange smoke I produced.” She responded, crossing her arms. Zerith could not see him in the darkness, but she felt the warmth of his presence beside her stronger than anything.

“A snowstorm approaches. Any normal Northman could simply mistake it for that.” He breathed heavily with their exertions, the sparks of his flint illuminating his scrunched face in the darkness. She waited a while for him, knowing they had no time to argue, before he managed to produce a lit torch. It burned dimmer than she knew he would have allowed had it been her choice to light it, but it was better than nothing in the blackness. He offered it to her, seeing that she had been leading him along. She carefully held it in her hand as though it were the most fragile piece of glassware.

“This way,” Zerith gestured and began to walk back to where Hassun had insisted they station themselves.

“So, what did the Easterling and the other man talk about?” Hassun asked in a low voice as they trudged, his voice barely audible.

“Poor weather has dismantled much of the united clans,” Zerith began, a chill beginning to creep up her bones. “The man said he needed more warriors because many had succumbed to sickness and disease, given to them by ‘The Master’. The Easterling offered a solution: orc-kind. ‘They will be ready, in a few days’ time. Then the North will be yours.’ That is what the Easterling said. And the man agreed, though not too happily.”

“Orcs, in the North? We have just begun to build fortifications. While I am happy to hear that there may be less resistance from the clans, we did not prepare for…outside forces.” Hassun’s voice quivered.

“Outside forces require outside help,” Zerith tried to comfort him, but even she knew the odds were dire. Still, the Valar must lead the Free Peoples to victory, right? “It seems like I may have to use my fire-breath after all,” she joked.

“No,” he grumbled. “We may have the odds stacked against us, but I will not have you risk your life and all you are in such a manner. We have talked about this before.”

“Everyone is already risking their lives by coming here to fight. Which is why you must be the leader of the rallying cry of your people. You will go back to the mercenaries, the men from distant lands who are putting their lives on the line for matters they cannot fully comprehend. You will use whatever words necessary to compel them to stay. They question your leadership. You must not let chinks in your armor appear, Hassun.”

“It sounds as though you are commanding me, my lady.” He replied with humor.

“I have ways of making sure what must be done gets done. I am no longer the young and clueless girl you met in Bree.” Her voice had an edge which even surprised her, but if he found offense in it, he did not indicate it.

“It is clear to me that you are not. And I suspect you never were to begin with.” He softened for a moment, and Zerith did her best to ignore the beginnings of longing in her heart. “In the morning, we must return to my father and the other leaders. Scouting is nearly useless now, I believe. We must focus all our efforts on our defenses and the strength of our arms.”

She prayed to the Valar as she walked. She prayed that they still had time to prepare as best they could for an imminent war. She prayed that the strength of the North would survive to live on for many Ages to come, no matter how many men fell. She prayed for Hassun, his father and the Clan-Mother, and Eska; Mhafi and the fortitude of his dwarf-wife; the mercenaries and all their loved ones; and she prayed for all of the clans. Each life was a fragment of glass fixed in the grand mosaic of the sky and the stars, and everything the world had known, and would know.

_Please, let us withstand evil._

It was still black when they at last made it back to the cave. The pair entered as quietly as possible, but their cautions did not matter. All of the men were awake and standing near their gear as though they were just about to depart.

“We were just about to go looking for you,” Mhafi said, his eyes lighting up as he saw Zerith.

“On whose orders?” Hassun asked as he took in each of the men’s widened eyes. They all pointed to her, and she felt her face flush with warmth as Hassun fixated his gaze on her.

“I told them,” Zerith motioned to the two boys who had leisurely been playing a game rather than keeping watch, “to search for us since you insisted on scouting alone in the darkness.” _Probably not the best thing to say after you just lectured him about leadership._

“I did, but I am glad you came along,” Hassun began with a sheepish smile towards her before addressing the group. He took a step forward, and followed suit, allowing the torch to illuminate his face. “Zerith and I discovered urgent information that must be brought to the clans’ attention at once. I believe, however, that all of you have the right to know what you are getting into. There is good news and bad news. The good news is that there may be less enemy clan presence in the battles to come. The bad news is that the enemy forces of the North are being bolstered by orc-kind. They will be arriving to attack in a few days.”

A cascade of whispers and horrified looks rolled through the cavern to varying degrees. Some men looked as though they had just soiled themselves. Some looked resigned and soberly acceptive of their new foes. And others looked too shocked to respond. Fortunately, Hassun spoke again.

“I know none of you prepared for this. Most of you thought you would get to fight savages in our Northern lands and be rewarded with as much loot as you can carry. While that still stands, the stakes are raised. But know this: this war is not just about the North. If the forces of the Enemy are allowed to triumph in the days to come, do you think they will stop here? Do you think they will be satisfied with the North? The corruption and darkness will spread south and engulf all in its path.

Fortunately, we have been given a chance to defeat it here. Stand with my people against the growing threat, and make it known that you are no simple sword-for-hire, but someone Middle Earth’s leaders can stand by. Earn all the loot you can carry, and stop potential invaders of your lands in the same stroke. Will you stand with my people?”

All fell silent for a moment. Then, an “Aye” was called out. Another followed it, and then another still, until Zerith lost count. The Northmen nodded resolutely. It seemed to Zerith that the mercenaries and Northern-folk were united at least for now, and she found herself smiling along with Hassun.

“Good. We set back for my people in the morning. Get plenty of rest. Thorbert and Colborn, you take the next watch.” Hassun nodded to the two Bree-landers who took their spots at the cavern entrance. Zerith threw the torch inside the pit where the campfire still burned brightly, and began to remove her weapons. By the Valar, she was _tired_.

“Fancied yourself a little adventure, lass?” Mhafi mused.

“What’s life without adventure, Mhafi?” She smiled at him. _I think I’m beginning to understand the dwarf._ He chuckled along with her, and the group eagerly returned to their bedrolls.

-o-

Zerith awoke again, not from another nightmare, but of the sound of scuffling and snickering near the cavern entrance. _Can mercenaries not follow through with the simple job of keeping watch?_ She opened her eyes hazily and saw that it was in fact the mercenaries who were making the ruckus. They were leading their fully-loaded horses out of the entrance, attempting at being as quiet as they could to not wake the others. Her blood began to boil. Once they were out of sight, she quickly left the warm embrace of her bedroll and sheathed her sword, following the pair.

When she caught up to them, they were out in the hazy dawn light, their backs turned as they readied to mount their horses.

“What do you two think you are doing? I didn’t realize that desertion paid well,” Zerith tilted her head to consider them, her hand resting on the pommel of Foe’s Folly with her other arm concealing any trace of her willingness for battle.

“And death by an orc-blade doesn’t pay nothing, girl.” The shorter man with a crooked mustache spat at her feet. “We ain’t about to be cut down by orcs and savage scum next to the same sort o’ people who don’t care a lick about us.”

This only served to infuriate her further. _How dare they abandon so many innocent lives to ruin?_ She felt her fire grow stronger within her bosom, but she was reminded of another non-violent option. Zerith had the brothers’ attention, and she would never let it go to waste.

“What did you two say your names were? Thorbert and Colborn? Well, Thorbert and Colborn, you both will be staying in the North.” Their frowns deepened and they reached for their weapons, but a golden glow caught in each of their eyes that froze them. “You will fight with the Northmen side-by-side. You will cut down any orc or clanmen that attempts to harm them. You will fight with all your strength. And you will not leave the North until the war has been won and you have received what was promised. What do you say, gentlemen?” She concluded, relishing in their blank, golden gazes that were trained on her own.

“We say yes,” Thorbert and Colborn said at the same time, as though something clicked in their brains in that exact moment. They both led their horses back inside the cavern. Zerith stood aside and took in their methodical movements, equally enamored and terrified at what she had just done.

 _An interesting proposition_ , Gostir commented. _A proposition I might have even considered employing, myself._

A shiver passed down her spine. She needed to get better at ignoring him. Re-entering the cavern, Zerith observed how the golden light had faded from the two men’s eyes, but that they still unloaded their gear from their horses. She returned to her bedroll, glad to see that no one else had woken up. The men eventually returned to their posts at the cavern entrance, and seemed rooted to the spot.

Still, she did not trust their word. She used a dragon-spell for the first time. Could she trust in the strength of it? Doubtful, Zerith protested against her body’s pangs and did not go back to sleep, instead busying herself with taking care of her weapons and mending the seams of Mhafi’s borrowed Northern attire.

Hassun was the first to wake, rolling onto his back and regarding her clearly awakened form with curiosity.

“You’re up early.” He commented softly as he got up and prepared himself for the journey home.

“Couldn’t sleep,” She could not keep from smiling, deciding that she preferred to be more amused about the sheer horror of her life than melancholic, at least for now.

The rest of the men did not take long to awaken. Soon they were up and their horses were readied. Mhafi was the last, waking just after Hassun left the cavern. The other mercenaries followed suit and she struggled to get him up and active.

“I don’t want all of them to leave us behind, Mhafi! It’s not safe.” She ran her hands through her hair as she watched the dwarf leisurely tighten his belt.

“Never rush a dwarf,” He brushed her annoyances off, watching as she quickly saddled Applegrabber more than actually doing anything.

“Up you go,” Zerith sighed into the morning air as she helped the hefty dwarf into the saddle. Applegrabber snorted and she felt ready to lie down in the dirt.

“You know, Zerith,” Mhafi began as she mounted her loving horse and urged him into a gallop, “if you and Hassun do anymore late night ‘adventures’, people will think you are…up to something.”

Zerith’s heart skipped a beat. After the nightmare she had, she sincerely doubted that anything would happen to back up those fruit-bearing thoughts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Ice-Wall's Stand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for canon-typical violence
> 
> i can't write battles
> 
> also i am a horrible updater, yay me ;)
> 
> (i won't abandon this fic tho. Got big plans, big dreams, my friends. Just can't make it snappy. :( )

Chapter 11: Ice-Wall’s Stand

 

_ This war is shaping up to be a real pain in the ass,  _ Zerith thought.

 

And she was right, as she watched a few donkeys pass the stable where she sat near Applegrabber, hauling bags of ice and snow behind them towards the ice-wall. After the scouting party had returned and Hassun hastily explained what he had heard (and Zerith thanked him endlessly afterwards for his constant keeping of her many secrets), Chieftain Massak ordered every able-bodied man or woman to dedicate their time to the building of their fortifications. She, too, had pitched in tirelessly, but took a brief respite as she could hardly feel her fingers and knees from kneeling and packing snow.

 

Zerith rose to stretch her legs, Applegrabber nickering softly at her absence, as she left the darkness of the stable to gaze upon the crystalline wall. 

 

It rose so high now that the winter sun only bounced off the top and scattered its rays at an angle down into the camp. Past the thick wall, there were trenches and wood-and-ice towers that had been built by the Chieftain’s demand. They had been hastily formed at first when the scouting party returned to deliver the grim news, but a few days had passed with no sight of war on the horizon, and so they were further built up to be adequate in the wall’s image.

 

Weapons and armor had been hammered and refined while the party was gone to Zerith’s relief, and now every able warrior would be able to readily stand in the North’s defence against the forces of evil. 

 

Zerith was impressed; she could hardly fathom how much progress had been made in the last few days. She did not doubt that the People of the North could easily build an ice-city if they willed it. She doubted they would ever have a wish or need to do so however, as she had only heard of such places as  Sûri-kylä as having a true measurable size in the frozen lands. Regardless, she had gathered that the Northmen were more formidable and steadfast than the Southerners made them out to be.

 

She looked to where men guarded and worked the ice-wall to see the stout form of her dwarven friend. He turned and caught her eye with a grin, and she waved to him. Even from a distance, she saw the red on his cheeks and nose. He bounded down the stairs and past the huts towards her as she watched him.

 

“Howdy-do! This weather makes for bewildering work, doesn’t it?” He wheezed, and she heard the sloshing of liquid in the pack at his side.

“Indeed it does, Mhafi. But every free moment we have means another we live.” Zerith patted his shoulder, a frown forming on her face as her words came out more desolate than she’d meant.

“Come now, Zerith,” Mhafi looked up at her, concern crinkling around his eyes, “You sincerely doubt the Northmen? And you dare to doubt me? Although I must say I am glad for these moments of toil and not battle. Like any of Durin’s Folk, I will not shy away from bloodshed and war when it comes, but it does leave me anxious. All this build-up allows for the worries to seep through, but then...it just happens, and everything but your weapon goes away. You’ve seen fighting, I trust, and I’m sure you understand.”

 

She nodded, the lump in her throat constricting any sound from pouring from her mouth.  _ I myself have fought wolves and stabbed a man with a knife while his breeches were down. Satherra was far more war-worthy than I. I suppose it’s for the better. _

 

“Come, Zerith,” he ushered her into the warmth of the stable where her horse gazed longingly at the two, “let’s have a drink and be warm and merry for a moment. Can’t do good work if your fingers fall off.”

 

She returned to her stool next to her horse, and waited patiently as Mhafi rummaged around in the stall for another one. When he found it, he dragged it to her side and hefted himself up with a creak.

 

“A drink, did you say? What have you brought me?” She smiled as she looked down at him.

 

“Oh, I doubt you’ll like it much, but it’ll keep you warm and sprightly. Fine ale from the Ale Association! I’ve been saving it all this time, but now’s as good as ever.” He pulled the sloshing bottle from his pack, his hands barely being able to wrap around it. It was certaintly not meant for just one dwarf to drink, but she knew that he would have eagerly drank it all had he not had someone to share it with. 

 

Offering it to her, she uncorked it and took a sip without hesitation. It nearly slipped from her hands as she spluttered, mouth and nostrils burning. She could barely hear Mhafi’s roaring laughter next to her as the fire flickered inside her. He took it from her and took a long gulp, not having nearly the same reaction as she.

 

“I was right, wasn’t I? Burns, but good. Just as they make it in the Iron Hills.” His grin sparkled in the light of a candle in the stable’s corner.

 

“If that’s what you call good...” Her sentence caught in her throat as she saw his crestfallen look. 

 

She took the bottle from him again and took a bigger sip, holding back tears that burned in her eyes.

 

“Then yes, I suppose it is good.” 

 

“Oh, my Zerith.” He patted her braid affectionately. “I can always count on you, can’t I?” The tears seemed to well up in her eyes, but the ale no longer burned.  _ It’s good _ _ ,  _ she decided, as she forgot her worries.

 

The world could not be kind on her for too long however, for a clanging caught her attention outside of the stable. Mhafi turned too to see Chieftain Massak and Hassun, accompanied by a lone scout in front of them. The Chieftain ordered a few lone men to scout just beyond the towers for any signs of orcs or the enemy clans. 

 

The pair watched as the scout uncovered a cloth bundle to reveal a grisly-shaped sword, which the Chieftain took gingerly and shone in the sunlight. A chill ran down her spine, and Hassun turned his attention away from the sword to look at her.

 

“By Durin, I know that hooked curve. That’s of Orcish make, no doubt about it.” Mhafi muttered next to her.

 

“How did the scout get it?” She whispered to him. “Orcs would not leave their weapons on the frozen ground, and I doubt the scout could have killed him on his own...if the orc was even by  _ himself _ , that is.”

 

“You’re right. They would never be so careless despite their culture...unless they were in a hurry.” Her blood felt frozen. 

 

She looked up from the dwarf’s downtrodden face to see that the scout had gone away along with the sword. Chieftain Massak and Hassun exchanged brief words before the father nodded briskly to his son and walked away before the pair could cause a stir among the Tarakona that flittered about.

 

Hassun stood alone for a moment, his eyes fixed to the ground. Zerith knew that look on his face, one that he often tried so very hard to hide: fear. She had sometimes seen it when they would argue, or regarding anything related to her. As quickly as she spotted it, it disappeared, and he looked up towards her and approached.

 

“Well, you and I both know what that means. I had best prepare, and warn the other mercenaries that haven’t dared to desert yet. Keep the ale, perhaps it will ease the both of your spirits.” Zerith dreaded when he had said ‘both’, for already Hassun stood just a few feet from her, rubbing Applegrabber’s neck with a tenderness she had nearly forgotten.

 

“I can’t blame you for enjoying the rare warmth this stable holds, Mhafi.” Hassun said, giving the dwarf a smirk. “It seems as though even the heat of the Great Tent has been dispersed in these past few days, no doubt due to what is to come.” He frowned.

 

“Then...” Mhafi began, and Hassun answered his silent question with a nod. He looked back at Zerith. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

 

Before Zerith could protest, the dwarf disappeared into the chilly mid-morning air. After a moment, Hassun took Mhafi’s seat next to her. The bottle passed to him, and he drank it without as much of a whimper.

 

“Why not wait until the night?” Zerith asked him with a tilt of her head, trying to reach his gaze that was directed towards her horse’s flank.

 

“To them, I suspect it does not matter when they attack, for they are assured that they will annihilate us. And they prefer to feast and celebrate in the night, to sleep off their rancid liquors.” He turned to flash her a small smile. The candlelight illuminated his eyes in gold.

 

“They are misguided then,” Zerith returned his smile, “for they do not know the might of the North.” Hassun’s eyes sparkled with warmth at her words, and he craned his neck to see if there were any of his kinsmen near the stable before he leaned closer to her. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek, the scent of ale buzzing between them.

 

“Nor do they know the dragon we have in our midst.” She knew he was only teasing her, but his words made her heart pound with anxiety.

 

“And if everything goes to plan, no one will find out the literal meaning of your words.”

 

“When does anything involving us ever go according to plan, Zerith?”

 

“You’re right,” she sighed, and he took another swig of the ale. “But it cannot fail this time. They may be orcs who see no other purpose in life but to slaughter us all, but I cannot...lose control.” She looked down at her feet. He placed a light hand upon her cheek and whispered her name. She looked up, startled.

 

“In Minas Tirith, when I found you after...” He began, but paused when he saw the look upon her face. “I swore to myself that I would not let harm come to you if I could prevent it. I would have protected anyone I asked to come fight for us, but you are my friend. You have suffered far too much in your life to bear all the burdens that it brings. I promise you, now, that I will stay by your side.” 

 

“You have a duty to your people first, Hassun.” She reminded him, the heat in the stables growing to be overwhelming. 

 

“And I have a duty to you as well, whether you like it or not.” He took her hand in his, and squeezed it tightly. “Perhaps if dragons were not solitary creatures, they would not be so hostile.”

Zerith said nothing, enveloped in the comfort of his presence and warmth. For a moment, she forgot all of their transgressions and all of the pain. She was content to forget the world forever, if only to sit there with him . Zerith did not know if it was the ale making her bold, but she desired to lean further into his touch, to get as close as possible to him. A line stood between them, hinting at promises and opportunities. She almost wanted to cross it. But alas, the world was waiting for the both of them. 

 

She knew he wanted to say more. Part of her wanted him to, but the other never wanted to find out. She could now more clearly recognize the look he was giving her, better than she had ever understood it before. It was of longing. The way his body subconsciously leaned towards hers made her feel like he had already breached her defenses, and that there were no more hesitations or excuses that she could give. Perhaps he wanted a surrender. And in the headiness of it all, she might have given it to him.

 

He opened his mouth to say something else, but was only able to utter her name huskily before he was interrupted.

 

The low echo of a horn rang out in the camp, causing her to jump. The warmth faded.

 

“And so it begins,” Hassun began. She tore the ale from his grasp and nearly choked on it. “Suit up, and I’ll see you on the ice-wall.” He pulled his hand away from hers with some effort before stroking Applegrabber’s neck and withdrawing from the stables quickly. 

 

_ Is it as painful for him as it is for me? _ Zerith wondered.

 

“That man is going to be the death of me, Applegrabber.” She sighed before leaping to her feet and racing to Eska’s tent to don her weapons and armor.

 

-o-

Though it was only the late afternoon, the sky began to grow dim. Snow began to fall, light at first, but quicker with each passing moment. On the horizon, past the line of towers and trenches and the Grey Mountains’ reach, Zerith could just barely make out the black bulk of a fast-paced war machine.

 

Mhafi stood to her right alongside all of the other mercenaries and many of the Tarakona. The Chieftain and clan leaders shouted orders as tribesmen ran to and fro along the wall, sliding down ropes to the trenches, and racing up to the towers. Hassun, to her left, stood wordlessly. She shifted her stance, her spear and javelins clanking lightly against her back.

 

She once might have guessed that her father’s shield and Foe’s Folly at her side would give her some comfort against the growing darkness, but Zerith felt nothing but the chill of the wind.

Something tickled her fingertips, and she turned her head to see Hassun’s gaze. She wrapped her hand around his.  _ Your ‘vow of protection’ had better not lead to your death. I would never forgive you. _

 

“Any words of wisdom, lass?” Mhafi asked, as the archers in the trenches loaded quivers jammed full of arrows into the baskets near where they were stationed.

 

“You’re asking me?” Her voice rose. “Kill as many as you can without getting yourself killed. It’s harder than it sounds.” She was not surprised to hear him laugh.

 

She looked to her right and took in the mercenaries’ expressions. Readiness, terror, excitement. She saw the two men she had used the dragon-spell on and her heart dropped to her feet.  _ My actions could very well lead to their deaths, but how many of the Tarakona would be lost in their absence? _

 

_ Infinite sacrifices must be made in wartime. _ Gostir’s rumble vibrated in her head.  _ Far too many to count or comprehend. Men, women, children. The impact it has on their lives is far greater than its impact on the kingdom. _

 

_ We will do everything we can to ensure that today’s sacrifices have meaning.  _ She replied.

 

_ And your sacrifice? You must find my egg-shard. If you die today, all will be lost. _

 

_ I must also find the prophecy-stone, which only the Tarakona know of. To do that, I must gain their trust.  _ Zerith responded, watching as the army grew nearer and nearer.  _ What better way than through battle? Besides, you might fare better without me. You could find a new host. _

 

_ There is no time for second chances, Zerith. Do not dally in this battle. Keep yourself alive.  _ The irritation in his voice made her head itch.

 

_ And keep yourself silent. No tricks or games. We are ever closer. _

 

The army grew closer too, the men in the towers nocking their arrows. She heard the Chieftain whisper something in Hassun’s ear, but she could not make it out over the roaring of the wind. Their joined hands were hidden in the veil of his cloak. 

 

Suddenly, the snow picked up and the towers were barely visible. The marching of warbands was muffled in the wind. Her free hand rested on her sword, fingers twitching. She blinked, and the world was gone.

 

“For the Free Peoples!” Mhafi shouted. She heard the sluggish sounds of battle, then, from the towers and the trenches and even just below her feet. She felt each one of the orcs and tribesmen down below her like fire ants. Her hand slipped from Hassun’s death-like grip and went to her spear. Zerith held it tightly, her shield unwavering along her side. Her shoes almost lost their grip on the wall as a force barreled into it. She heard the sound of cracking ice, but the wall held true.

 

“What’s going on down there?” One of the mercenaries shouted. “I can’t see a thing!” The snow flurries passed too quickly to get even a moment’s glimpse of the fighting down below.

 

“How have they made it this far already?” Another man asked in response. The archers lining the wall behind them were useless in the storm.

 

The clan leaders, undoubtably frustrated and seething in the cold, began to argue amongst themselves for an answer to the unseen chaos mere feet away from them. Zerith strained her eyes to look along the horizon, to the moving masses of black and brown between the white. 

Another moment passed, and an enormous gust of wind blew the flurries away allowing the long-absent sun to shine through the grey sky, the ice-wall creaking and glimmering. She looked down to the battlefield. As everyone would have expected, both forces were in complete disarray. The orcs and their allied clansmen must have at first gained much ground past the trenches, pushing the Tarakona and their comrades back into the wall. It would explain the impact on the wall.

 

Without a commander’s sense, Zerith could not make heads or tails of the scene. She only saw masses of fighting forces between the trenches and under the towers’ shadow. Bile rose to her throat as she caught her first glimpse of orckind.

 

Twisted and malformed, she saw no humanity in them. Mottled in caked in dirt and blood, it was impossible for her to think of a place in the world they could truly claim as their own. Orcs of all shapes and sizes, pallid green and dingy and covered in shades of ferocity. She spotted goblins skittering about too, between the lines and warm-walls of fighting. It seemed as though her enemy was merciless. Disemboweling men with one stroke of their curved blades, or resorting to far baser methods of killing. On the edges of fighting, some had already began to feast on the flesh of the slain.

 

The evil clansmen were far less repulsive, but she saw no warmth in them either. Donned in darker hides than their kinder counterparts, they stood beside the orc warbands without hesitation or fear. She knew, of course, that not all of them were eager to fight alongside such monsters. The conversation she had heard a few nights ago when she and Hassun eavesdropped on one of the camps told her as much. They must have wanted freedom, but how could they have been so blind as to not see a new collar wrapping around their throat?

 

She looked to the very edge of the horizon and saw what must have been the leaders of the enemy force. They stood at a relatively safe distance away as the oversaw the battlefield. Among the Northmen and Orcs was the Easterling, who she  _ knew _ had to be behind this whole scheme. 

 

She wanted nothing more than to kill him. But in her path lay thousands, with the potential of many more lurking nearby.

 

Hassun motioned for the men behind the wall to bring the ladders. No longer could she and the mercenaries stand idly by while many were being killed. Ladders were deployed, shaking in the frenzy of many feet. She looked to her left and saw the Chieftain give his son a disapproving look, but he said nothing.

 

“Come, men. Now is the time to fight! With me!” Hassun shouted, before giving Zerith a resignated look and sliding down into a gap in the fighting. She followed along immediately, her gloved hands slipping smoothly across the wooden support of the ladder. Once she found her feet, she made sure Mhafi made it. For a dwarf, he was more agile than she would have guessed. 

 

“Stay close!” Hassun called out, the mercenaries forming a semi-circle of shield and steel with the young Tarakona leader at its peak. She stood dutifully by his side, covering his exposed flank with her outstretched, spear-wielding arm. Her other hand gripped tightly upon her shield. She once would have been bothered by the miriad of sights, sounds, and feelings around her, but she could only focus on what was right before her eyes. 

 

Slowly, they began to creep forth away from their safe haven and to where pools of blood mixed with the dirt and snow, caking their boots in ruddy mud. Skirmishes were won and fought before them, with both sides having lost most of their organization. It must have been Hassun’s idea to stem the tide by pushing through the disorganization.

 

The orcs to their immediate front, as though sensing a change upon the air, picked up the pace in their swings and made short work of their combatants before facing the shield-wall. Dingy saliva dripped onto their blood-soaked swords before making its way into the building sea that had once been the ground.

 

_ I swear by the Valar, when this is all over, I’m going somewhere dry. _ Zerith cursed herself, minding the way she gripped her spear.  _ Is this the right way that Eska taught me? No, just focus on the front. If it sticks, it will kill no matter what. _

 

An orc was lined up within her reach as the group hurried their pace. Its armor was considerably less damaged than the rest, and she dreaded to think that he was one of the most  _ successful _ ones. 

 

_ Maybe Gostir is right. Maybe this is all a mistake. I’m not cut out for war. Not among all this dirt and decay and blood-- _

 

“Steady, lass.”

But she couldn’t run. The line kept pushing like the sea, and she was drowning, drowning---

 

She feinted an attack to the orc’s side with her spear. He lunged for her spear-arm with that wicked curved blade, and she twisted her body just in time for a  _ clang _ to resound, barely audible through the shouting and the sound of her heart pounding. Her feet already beginning to slip in the mud, the orc’s disorientation and surprise allowed her to pierce him in the side he hadn’t accounted for. His putrid green face scrunched into a look of horror as he stood impaled and frozen upon her length for a moment before she wrenched it out of him, feeling every curve of his innards along the way. He crumpled to the ground, and she had not even a moment to watch him bleed out before the line moved forward again.

 

Stepping over the body of her first kill, she felt almost humored to realize that she was sorely out of her element. Zerith heard a squelch and looked to her right to see Mhafi, his axe embedded in a tribesmen’s shoulder. Without hesitation, he retrieved his axe with an almost graceful touch.  _ Yes, definitely out of my element. _

 

Zerith quickly replaced her spear at her back, not wanting to take any chances. She looked to her front and saw a Tarakona man a few feet away who was sorely matched against a much larger, hulking orc. The orc’s long matted hair covered his face, yet he was easily able to block the man’s blows.  _ But can he block a javelin, I wonder?  _ Zerith thought to herself. 

 

Her javelin was swift through the air as she hurled it toward’s the orc’s exposed side. Instead, it hit his sword-arm. The force thankfully caused the orc to lose his sword, his free arm going to where the javelin struck. The Tarakona man now stood a bit taller, and with a few strokes the orc was down. He looked towards his apparent savior, only to be met with a sword through the stomach from behind. Zerith looked on, horrified as a new orc quickly replaced the slain, pushing the Tarakona man’s body to the ground before looking to Zerith.

 

She hurled another javelin again, too quick for wits, and the orc ducked.  _ I’m going to miss that javelin. _ He sprinted at her, sword-arm raised above his head and teeth bared. Zerith unsheathed Foe’s Folly, her most comforting companion in Applegrabber’s absence, and waited until the orc was just upon her before raising her shield.

The impact almost pushed her backward. But the mud’s vice-like grip upon her feet rooted her, however, and she lowered her aching shield-arm, now raising her sword in a parry against the orc’s own. She was barely able to push his sword but a few inches away, but it had no effect, for the sword returned to its dangerous position within striking distance of her upper chest.

 

The orc’s riposte was instead aimed at her belly, but the flat of her blade just barely caught it as she moved back the best that she could in the mud. Her sword buzzed painfully in her hand, but the grip held true. She pushed her shield-arm out further after he recoiled, opting to fight defensively. Zerith was less strong and had less stamina, with no real advantages in the fight other than her forbidden dragon-fire and sheer willpower, but damned if she wasn’t going to give it her all.

 

Her self-protection was met only with a gurgled laugh from the orc as he lazily lowered his sword, preferring to barrel into the woman with all of his bodyweight instead. Helpless, Zerith fell backwards, and although her shield was still protecting her body, she could do little on the ground. Now gripping his sword with two gargantuan hands, he raised it high above her, the muscles of his uncovered arms twisting as his full power was in his stroke, preparing to strike down upon her where they both knew her shield-arm couldn’t hold---

 

Steel on steel rang through the air as the curve of Mhafi’s axe caught the sword, the dwarf laughing as he pushed the sword’s curve far away from where Zerith lay in the mud. The orc stumbled back, dazed and confused, and Mhafi swung his axe higher, embedding it in the orc’s exposed throat. 

 

Unable to bear the sight, Zerith quickly got her bearings and rose to her feet, listening to the orc’s gurgling and an eventual thump as he fell to the ground. She turned to look at her short-statured savior, who already had blood caked into his beard.

 

“Watch yourself,” was all that he said. She nodded, and he was already back in the fray with a battle-shout.

 

Zerith felt utterly grimy, embarrassed, and lost. All around her were men and orcs fighting. Evil men, good men, and some in between. Orcs, and goblins too, with their endless thirst for battle. 

 

She realized, for the first time in her life, that she was no true dragon. Where was the dragon and its fire? Where were the men screaming and running for their lives, or down upon their knees begging for mercy? They did not exist. No, instead she was a rabbit surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves. And what is a rabbit to do other than hide and run and hope for another moment, another minute, or another day more of living?

 

_ A rabbit in dragon’s clothing,  _ Zerith thought, wiping the mud away from her sword as the waves of war washed upon her. She engaged with another orc, the time and the blows flying by in the chill of the battle. Each injury, small or large, was catalogued upon her body. 

 

Zerith realized far too late that she had been pushed away from Hassun, Mhafi, and the rest of the mercenaries. She had fought her way to a small group of Tarakona who were being constantly pushed and pulled by orcs. She was squeezed side by side as both parties struggled to reach with their swords towards the other.

 

She tripped and fell to the ground, hands and legs pinned by the trampling of many feet. She gasped for air as she suffocated, only to have dirt and blood fill her mouth and nose.  _ This is where I die.  _ She was buried deeper into the earth as the slain fell upon her, the gnawing cold of their corpses marking her forgotten burial bed.

 

The dirt stung her eyes and she couldn’t see anyway, so she closed them. Her hearing dulled to only the lullaby of shouting, moans, and steel.  _ Is this all that my life has come to? _

 

But somehow she rose up out of the dirt and decay, gasping for breath and able to see bright light again. Or rather, someone was holding her by the hood of her parka, hoisting her up and out of the pile of slain. Her heart swelled with hope for a moment, only to be crushed by the realization that it was an orc carrying her away. She craned her head to see that all of the Tarakona around her had been slaughtered, and that the orc was taking her even further from her companions, closer to the bulk of the enemy force. He hadn’t yet stopped to kill her, and she knew he could easily take her life then and there, her sword and shield lost among the bodies.  _ Why not just kill me?  _ Her pack had slipped free from her shoulders somewhere, her spear and javelins lost. Higher in the air than she had been in what seemed like an eternity, she saw past the orc army and to the Easterling alongside his Northern ally. He looked back at her, and she knew.

 

_ He wants me. And I want him. More importantly, his life. _

 

Zerith knew that whatever purpose he saw in keeping her alive was not out of kindness. She had to retreat to safety before she was brought to him. But she was so  _ weak.  _ She felt the sting of cuts and aches from a thousand places. Without a weapon, she was hopeless against the orc, unless she found a way to be free from his grasp. She had an idea, but it was risky. Though she guessed she was probably a dead woman no matter what she did.

 

She swung her right leg as far as she could towards the space between the orc’s legs. Even through his armor, he felt the impact and roared, throwing her down into the mud as he instinctively curled his back. 

She moaned as her back collided with the hard ground, pain radiating out of her foot where it had met his armor. All of the air that she had inhaled out of desperation had been knocked out of her. This was her only chance, but her strength failed her, arms and legs sinking further into the ground as her eyes trained on the empty gray sky. She wished she could burn all the pain away, and leave all of her weaknesses and foolishness behind her.  _ Gostir was right. The dragon always was, and always has been. _

 

“Stupid woman!” The orc bellowed at her, replacing her view of the sky. “He said to bring you in one piece, but you have to make it so difficult!” She felt familiarity creep into her form as he rolled his knee in between her legs harshly, his other appendages moving to pin her within his grasp. She was being suffocated again, crushed into the earth as his rough hands groped every part of her body.

 

She stretched her arms out above her head, searching for anything that could help her while ignoring the dizzying and pungent heat of the orc’s face blocking any views of freedom. Her body, as much as it could, recoiled away from his touch, remembering Minas Tirith and all who had hurt her. She was so tired of being hurt, betrayed, unloved, and untrusted. So very, very, tired. 

If this was her time to die, then let it be so, she thought. She had tried for so long to find some ounce of self-worth and meaning in the world. It was beyond dragons, beyond the Tarakona and Satherra, beyond her mother and father and the city of her birth. Past Gandalf, and Uirien, and the Unscathed. Hassun, Mhafi, the mercenaries, the Chieftain, the Clan-Mother. It was just  _ her _ .  _ She _ was in this world, but hardly even a speck upon it. Her death would ultimately mean nothing. Everyone would eventually forget her, and the fire would once again be snuffed out.

Just as blackness began to dance across her vision, her left hand found something curved and smooth.  _ A shield handle? _ It didn’t matter. Her fingers curled around it, arm swinging it as hard as she could, bashing the side of the orc’s skull. He rolled off of her onto his back. She caught a glimpse of her makeshift weapon as its curvature blocked out the sun.  _ Yes, a shield. _

 

Her body rolled of its own accord, thighs straddling the orc’s midsection as her arms raised the pointed edge of the shield high above her head. The orc’s expression of pain twisted into pure  _ fear,  _ causing Zerith’s mouth to turn upwards as she brought the shield down with all her power upon his skull. His arms reached up, but not quite enough to reach her before she raised the shield and lowered it with force again.

 

And again.

 

And again.

 

And again.

 

And again.

 

And again, as orc-blood and flesh flew up and onto her face, and again until her arms lost their new-found strength and he stopped making sounds. She was breathing heavily, staring at a point past the orc’s mangled face.

 

After she had finished, she looked up and around her. The bulk of the orcs no longer seemed amused as she remembered them being when they saw her ragdolled body being carried. Rather, they brandished her swords, forgetting their master’s command and their enjoyment of battle to focus on her.

 

Her body was shaking. She didn’t think she could get up again. It seemed useless to try. So she sat there and threw the shield a few feet away from her, leaning back upon her heels and watching as some of the orcs from the warband closed the gap between their force and her lone person, all the while cutting down any of the Tarakona or other Northerners that stood in her way. 

 

She was able to stretch her neck and glance past the forms of orcs to see the Easterling again. The curve of his frown would be slashed across her memory forever. She smiled.

 

She turned to the ice-wall, gazing upon the Chieftain and his allies illuminated in the sun. Her eyes fell further down to where the fighting continued, and recognized the faces of some of the mercenaries. There were far fewer of them than the day started out with.

 

Zerith looked again and found Hassun in the chaos. Her heart warmed to watch him fight so valiantly for his people. But then he caught the sight of her. Her heart dropped to her stomach as she saw his eyes widen. His lips moved to shout her name, and she watched in horror as he began to attempt to cut a path towards her.  _ No, please don’t try to come and save me. Don’t get yourself killed. _ She lost sight of him, and he lost sight of her as orcs closed in around him.

 

She turned back to see orcs only mere moments away from her.  _ At least I die with some dignity left. _ She closed her eyes.

 

Suddenly, she felt inhuman strength rush through her veins. Every inch of her body locked up and became paralyzed, and she watched hopelessly as her body rose to its feet, standing sturdily in place. The fire rose and rose, and burned all of the pain away.

_ What are you doing?  _ Zerith demanded from inside her head, struggling to regain control of her limbs.

 

_ Would you rather die?  _ Gostir asked.  _ I warned you of this, and you did not listen. Again, I must save your life. _

 

_ Let me go.  _

 

_ Your life is not yours to forfeit,  _ he reminded her.

 

Just as the orcs closed in on her, Zerith’s world erupted into flames.

 

-o-

 

“Where is your son, Massak?” The chieftain and clan leaders of the North stood rooted upon the wall, gazing out at the immense battlefield below. Massak searched for his son out of the many faces of the Tarakona, each time thinking that he had found him, only to be wrong. A father’s desperate hope, he supposed.

 

“He’s out there somewhere trying to find some sense in this chaos.” The Tarakona chieftain replied gruffly. Yrjö laughed.

 

“If I were you, Massak, I would never have let my only son lead a band of southerners to certain death.” Yrjö, leader of the Lossoth, commented, the serpents upon the chain ‘round his neck smirking in the winter light.

 

“I have the utmost faith in him, which is why I allowed him down there rather than I. He’s a man, no longer a boy. And a boy must eventually stop drinking his mother’s milk and hiding behind her.” Yrjö frowned at his words.

 

“A man does not stay a man for long if he dies as soon as he first glimpses manhood.” The Lossoth commented, looking back towards the fighting.

 

“A man dies a man if he dies for freedom, and for his people. There is no greater display of courage.”

 

“Courage?” Yrjö questioned. “Or is it foolishness?”

 

“I did not see any of your sons volunteer to take some leadership in this fight. In fact, I did not see them at all.”

 

“They’re enjoying the safety of Sûri-kylä. I must be honest with you, my dear friend,” Yrjö moved past the other clan leaders to pat Massak’s shoulder, though it was more of an open-handed punch, “I had thought this whole arrangement to be a trap. My wife suggested to leave my heirs behind, you see, to preserve the line. Without a wife any longer, I can see that an idea such as my own wife’s was lost on you. And only one son...” Yrjö’s grip made the chieftain’s arm ache. “Lost among the nameless.”

 

“I hope you enjoy your wife for many years to come.” The chieftain said through his teeth. He earned a chuckle in response, and watched as the green serpents almost seemed to flick their tongues out.

 

“Oh, my dear friend, I will. You can trust me on that.” Yrjö released the chieftain’s arm, and the other clan leaders began to whisper amongst themselves in piecemeal languages. 

 

Massak tore his stony gaze away from the Lossoth leader to resume the search for his son. Eventually he found him, watching in silent pride as his blood cut down the orcs in his path, accompanied by the band of mercenaries and the dwarf.  _ No sign of the girl, though. _

 

“No, I don’t see her either. And what of her? A strange one, don’t you think?” Yrjö’s grating voice broke him out of his stare and Massak realized too late that he had spoken aloud.

 

“All southerners are strange,” He remarked nonchalantly, looking for the scarred woman again.

 

“She is  _ stranger _ , Massak, don’t you think? She was the only one which Hassun acquired. And your Clan-Mother took an even stranger interest in her. I can’t help but wonder...”

 

“Don’t,” Chieftain Massak replied, his frown deepening. She was still nowhere in sight.

 

“You do not find your son’s interactions with her rather...worrisome? Your only son...and a Gondorian woman, was it? Plucked her from Bree, all around the Misty Mountains. A long trip for such a pair.” Massak could hear the venomous humor in Yrjö’s voice.

 

“My son knows better. I trust him with that much.”

 

“Ah, but young men do not always think with their heads. He may  _ know,  _ but what would his actions say?”

 

“You are testing my patience, and this fragile alliance.” Massak responded, unable to find a reply that could quell his sinking heart. Though he trusted his son, he remembered his own flighty feelings and whims as a young man. 

 

“Don’t forget, Massak, that there are many Lossoth men fighting and dying down there. As are all of our people.” Yrjö warned, and the other leaders looked up from their hushed conversations to stare at the Tarakona leader.

 

“And we should be down with them. Instead we cower up here and wait for the outcome of this battle, whether we live or we die.” Massak shook his head, thumbing the pommel of the sword at his belt.

 

“I’ve found her.” Yrjö said suddenly, and Massak followed his outstretched hand. The Lossoth man was right. The Gondorian woman was standing on the edge of the battle, nearest to the orc’s side, unarmed and without allies as orcs rushed to meet her -- and only her -- in the field. 

 

Massak’s attention was diverted as he heard his son’s voice among the clamor, and he looked down to see that Hassun had begun to break away from the force that he had organized. He cried out the woman’s name -- Zerith, Massak finally recalled -- and began to cut a path towards the lone woman. The force of the Free Peoples in which he had managed to save from the disorganized chaos of the battle were slowly following his lead. Massak knew, however, that Hassun’s primary goal was not to turn the tide of the battle, but to save the woman. His heart sunk.

 

The woman stood, visibily bloodied and battered from the fighting, and did not cower as the force of orcs charged her. She did not turn at the sound of her name, nor did she try to flee. The chieftain admired her courage, but it was fruitless. She would die.

 

Suddenly, the view of the woman was ignited in a blaze of flame so bright and frenetic that the men upon the wall hunkered down, shielding their eyes from the light. A wave of pulsating energy tore through the field, vibrating up the wall and into Massak’s very form.  _ An explosion? _

 

When the flames cleared and sight returned upon the battlefield, Massak saw  _ her. _

 

“Blood of my blood,” Yrjö cried out.

 

She stood, unharmed and untouched by the flames, and the ashen forms of orckind crumbled at her feet. Many of the clusters of fighting upon the earth paused for a moment to turn their attention to the wave of heat and fire. It seemed as though time itself had paused to look upon the lone woman standing among the dead. Massak looked down at his son, who had paused too, before continuing to make his way towards her through the maze of orckind and evil Northmen.

 

More orcs began to approach the woman, believing that her luck had only been a simple tool or trick of the light. Again, she stood unfazed, and opened her mouth. Again, the field was set aflame.

 

“Gods,” Massak exhaled.

 

-o-

 

Orcs would come and the fire would push them back. Zerith stood, unable to move within her own body, as Gostir decided he liked orcs best roasted.

 

_ Are you done now? _ She asked. But he did not reply.

 

Her body pivoted, boots crunching upon ash and soot, and angled itself towards the distant mountains. Her foot raised, outstretched forward, and was planted on the ground again. He was taking her to the Withered Heath, she realized.

 

_ No, no, no, no. You are not making me abandon this battle.  _

 

_ You would have died were it not for me. Be grateful. I won’t let you give up my freedom for their folly.  _ Gostir huffed as he continued to walk her body.

 

_ And what about my freedom? Or theirs? _ She exclaimed.

 

_ Neither can be achieved if you are dead. _

 

_ Perhaps I would rather be dead, have you ever thought of that? I never asked for you, or for any of this.  _

 

_ I did not choose you, nor did you choose me. Fate chose us both. One cannot live without the other, and it does neither of us any good to risk our lives for nothing. _ The silver dragon grumbled.

 

“Zerith!” She heard Hassun shout from somewhere behind her. He kept calling her name, but she couldn’t look back to see him. All she wanted was to run into his embrace, to know she was safe, and to feel  _ alive _ amongst the dead. But she couldn’t look back.

 

_ His incessant whining is growing on my nerves. Let us change that.  _ The dragon said, and before she could protest in vain, he pried her mouth open. Mist and smoke swirled around her, and she saw only grayness, though her body still moved with an unnatural calmness.

 

Hassun called her name again, but it seemed even more distant and muffled than it had been. Zerith’s body kept walking.

 

_ Please don’t do this.  _ Zerith begged.

 

_ You left me with no choice. And one day, you will find reason to be grateful. _

 

Her body kept moving. Hassun cried out for her. She couldn’t look back.

 

She couldn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dragon ex machina
> 
> always.
> 
> comment plz i need imaginary friends


	12. The Withered Heath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey ya'll, back with another chapter! This was a fun one to write, though it's probably rushed. (But what chapter isn't ;) ) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it. This chapter and beyond is where things kind of heat up in the whole entire story in regards to the plot, I think.
> 
> Please let me know what your thoughts are. Comments are always loved <3

Chapter 12: The Withered Heath

 

            Zerith lost all track of time as Gostir continued to push her forward towards the snow-peaked mountains crowning the Withered Heath. Even through his dragon-strength, she felt the exhaustion and injury seep to her very soul.

 

            She felt the sting of tears too, but her eyes did not permit her to cry. If she had any choice, she would have simply closed them to try and escape from the situation the dragon put her in.

 

            _What do you even believe finding your egg-shard will do anyway? And how can you be so certain it still exists? You hatched thousands of years ago._ Zerith asked.

 

            _Dragons are beings of wisdom and history, though we are often shrouded in evil. It may allow me -- us -- to see things in the past, present, or things which have not yet occurred but will, or may. Anything can help us now. What do you have to lose, mortal?_

 

            _You’ve already caused me to lose much, so I suppose I have little to lose._ Zerith seethed.

           

            _And for that I suppose I should feel sorrowful. I have caused pain to many. The nature of dragons is destruction, after all._

_It doesn’t have to be. You wanted to help mankind when you sought out the Tarakona. If you had any other aspirations, why leave Mordor? WY give yourself up to be killed after your prodigy failed you?_

_Dragons are beings of destruction, as I said. They live for evil, for greed, and for being the only one among many. They share these traits with the Enemy and the forces of evil, which directly oppose the Free Peoples. How could I be any different?_

_Valar, I may be rubbing off on you too much with my pessimism. Gostir, you are a dragon. You do not have to choose to follow the path you were born into. You can follow the path you choose._

_Every one of my kind has failed in whatever their task was. I do not mean the lesser of my kin. But those like me. Glaurung, Ancalagon, Scatha, Smaug. All slain. Could I ever hope for a different fate?_ Gostir bellowed.

 

            _Yes, because you were already slain once. But someone, for some other purpose, has given you another chance. You cannot erase the past, but you can use it to better the future. And bettering the future for the Free Peoples does not mean forcing me to leave the scene of a battle that will decide the future of the North!_ Zerith exclaimed.

 

            _If I had left you there in your mortal form, you would have died as no one, face down in the dirt. Or you would have had an even worse fate. Should I remind you of the last time I saved you?_

_Don’t._ Zerith warned, feeling the cold creep into her body even through the dragon’s scorching heat. _You could have stayed there and used your dragon-fire to turn the tide of the battle._

_My dragon-fire? Is it not you who can wield it as well?_ The dragon questioned.

 

            _Only through you._ She replied, confusion pricking at her.

 

            _Truly? How do you believe Satherra was able to wield fire?_

She could not respond, and was answered instead by Gostir’s roaring laughter.

 

            _It is not enough to have a dragon within you, real or imaginary. You must be a dragon._

_If I were truly a dragon as you say, then I would turn my body back towards the scene of battle and help those I apparently want to serve!_

 

            _And you would eventually be slain by the Tarakona, as I was._

 

            _Only because of your decisions. We are returning to them after this little ‘adventure’ of yours._ She huffed.

 

_No, Zerith. We are going to leave this place far, far behind. The longer we have stayed, the more it pains me to relive the past._

 

_I am not leaving._ She hissed at him. _I cannot leave without knowing if Hassun is --_

_Always with that man. The battle was hopeless, and he made it worse on himself trying to save you. He is surely dead by now, and if you had any of my wisdom, you would know to leave him behind._

 

_If you had any wisdom, you would have known not to leave Satherra when she needed you most. And you would not give up the opportunity to fight for the Tarakona’s forgiveness._ She retorted as her body stopped just beneath the shadow of the Grey Mountains. He did not reply, but turned her head to look as far as she could to where snowcapped each silver peak.

 

_Aren’t we going around the mountains to venture forth towards the Heath?_ Again, he did not respond, but her hands reached out to grip at the slippery rock. They chipped away lightly at it with her nails, marveling at how her hands were covered in ashen black.

 

_Don’t even think about it, Gostir._ She warned, dread beginning to creep into her heart. Her legs raised to take a hesitant step upon a smooth ledge. _I’m not like you. I don’t have wings that could catch me if I fell. I have a tiny woman’s body that would break, and that is on the verge of breaking._ Still, he ignored her, forcing her to begin climbing up the incredibly steep mountainside. Though she knew he was strong, she did not trust that he knew her limits.

 

_Won’t there be drakes in the Withered Heath? What are you going to do about them? It is not as easy to burn them like men or orcs._ She squeaked out, wishing she could look anywhere else -- or be anywhere else, for that matter -- than the rock face. Luckily Gostir did not seem as interested as she might have been in watching the ground move further away from her.

 

_Lesser drakes are no threat to me. If they were wise, they would have sensed the presence of a true dragon and fled soon after you first took me to the North,_ was his reply. She was not convinced.

 

_How can you know? What if there are orcs there? I am completely unarmed save for your dragon-fire. At least we were on a battlefield where many were preoccupied with other foes. If you end up upon a camp..._

 

_Another reason to seek the skies, little one._ The dragon chuffed, forcing her to climb higher. Her heart was hammering.

 

_I think this might even be more dangerous than coming across a horde of orcs._ Zerith sighed, knowing that she had little sway over the wyrm.

 

_A shame you were not born to fly, lest you would be saying otherwise._

She felt a twinge of anxiety and excitement in her belly, even through the feeling of floating. Even if she did not have wings, could she never truly take flight? Perhaps not in the air, but on wings of freedom? What did freedom even _mean_ to her? Freedom from being marked as a pariah? Freedom from responsibility? Freedom from Gostir? She could say she knew for certain, but it would always come across as half-hearted. She couldn’t lie to herself, not when she needed honesty more than anything.

 

Gostir climbed higher, her head tilted towards the top of the mountains, and she saw no true end in sight. Gostir gave her body immense strength, but even he was slow in making much progress scaling the wall of striped rock. Most of it was grey in color, shining silver when small strips of light passed through the cloudy sky, but she saw patterns of sienna and black mottled along the side of the rock as well. Her breathing echoed heavily as they reached the halfway mark.

 

_I hope you don’t end up killing me after your takeover is over. I don’t know if I’ll be able to survive this abuse._

_You are stronger than you know, little one,_ he remarked, but she felt disappointed in him.

 

_So now that I have you alone..._ She began, but he interrupted her with a growl.

 

_You and I are alone every night._

_I’m always too tired and too annoyed to want to deal with you before I fall asleep, and you haven’t visited my dreams much._ Zerith said in exasperation.

 

_I feel_ His _influence too strongly in these lands,_ came his quiet response.

 

His _influence is everywhere, but given the fact that we just fought orckind and evil men, I am not surprised. It must be difficult to be reminded of the very aspect of yourself you wish to undo._

_‘Difficult’ would not be the start of it, little one._ The dragon rumbled in a jaded tone.

 

_I wanted to ask you something: Why did you choose to fly to the North after living in Mordor? I am sure you wanted to visit your birthplace, but why stay?_

_Unlike my brethren, humans fascinated me._ He began as he climbed higher. _To understand your enemy is to be victorious. I had no beginning interest in slaughtering them despite what might be expected of me. I viewed them more as mice to be played with as a cat would. But the more I learned of them, the fonder I grew._

 

_And they didn’t try to kill you?_ She asked.

 

_You must remember when I showed you my arrival to the Tarakona lands. They tried all that they could, but their efforts to harm me were futile. And when I made no attempts to harm_ them _, they tolerated me, if you could say that. Most were mistrustful, but a few took a deep interest in me._

_Ones like Satherra?_

_Yes,_ Gostir rumbled, sounding pleased. They were almost to the top of where two mountains met. Zerith could feel her body shaking. _Most were the disillusioned youths of the Tarakona. They sought a new opportunity. Some were elders who longed to hear a dragon’s words before they died. I found my cavern, and eventually they came. Not with spears and arrows, but with gifts and open arms._

 

_It sounds almost disturbing to me. If I were a dragon, I suppose I would like the gifts. And maybe the attention too. But humans sound bothersome._ Zerith remarked.

 

_Bothersome? In the worst moments, no more than pesky gnats. They gave me much, however. They would hunt for me, build me a dragon-hoard to which I would lay upon, and would tell me many things about the world and their life. I originally thought that I would travel to the lands of Men, learn anything that could help my Creator against them, and return to the dark lands and my Dark Lord. But the more I learned, the more I began to... understand. The thought of returning to Mordor grew fainter with each passing day. Years passed by._

Zerith wondered how much time had passed since she had been forced from the battlefield. The sky was still bright, but turning to a milky grey.

 

_And so you finally returned to Mordor after abandoning Satherra?_ She asked, and her feet finally stopped to stand upon the crest of their ascent. She tried to regain control of her body, but her arms and legs were completely numb. Whether it was from his vice-like grip upon her form or from her sheer exhaustion, she did not know.

_Yes, little one._ He did not sound so pleased with her at the mention of Satherra. She had always wished to know more about their shared history, but he had rarely indulged her such. _Where else would I have gone?_ He hissed.

 

_I don’t know._ Zerith stuttered. _And did you tell your Master about the North?_

_Yes, and he was pleased. He believed that my positive interactions with them would foster a misplaced trust in me. He immediately ordered that I begin an annihilation of the North. He had planned on sending a force of orckind behind my attack to clean up my work and secure the lands. But these plans dissolved when He found that I had been killed._

_And yet He has moved his eye upon the North yet again._ Zerith sighed, longing again to return to all the men she left behind. _He left them behind. Not me._

She stood, looking down, barely able to see where ground returned to her vision. It was there, she knew, but hazy as the wind blew snow down and around the mountaintops, before they scattered into nothingness below. Her cheeks were chilled, and her black hair whipped her face and eyes.

 

_It was far easier to go up than it will be to go down. Just exactly how do you plan on getting me all the way down there without killing me?_

 

_It is no different than going up. You humans think too much, and_ do _too little in your short lives._ Gostir chortled, before whipping her body around and stepping down into the snowy air.

 

-o-

 

With an almost silent thud, Zerith’s feet hit solid ground. _Valar, bless you. It feels like an eternity._ Heavy snow began to fall just before she reached the base of the mountain, but it was already nearly impossible to see more than a league in front of her. _How am I supposed to find an egg-shard in this weather?_

_You don’t need your eyes. I_ feel _many things from my past. My egg-shard is almost as well-known to my being as the tip of my tail._ Gostir answered her.

 

_Then quickly feel your way to the shard so that you can leave me in peace and we can go somewhere warm._ Zerith retorted, and as if in response her feet began to move upon the snow-covered dirt. Beneath her, thousands of tiny egg-shards crunched. Infinitesimal pieces stuck into the leather and fur of her boots, until the sounds of her movements were different than they had been before; muffled, yet resounding through the earth with might. She focused on it for a moment, wondering if one of those pieces had once belonged to Gostir, or any of his kin that were well-known. But soon the wind picked up again, and the crunching sound was replaced with sliding and clattering, like ceramic plates in a cupboard.

 

She felt nothing but the crunching beneath her feet and the frigid wind cutting into her skin for a while. She wondered, how could she possibly find any specific shard in the domain of dragons? Thousands of drakes must have hatched here, alongside their larger counterparts, whose eggs would have long been broken down. Yet it was still all here, at her feet. She looked down again and saw a myriad of colors flash before her eyes. They were submerged under milk, but she saw them all.

 

Red, blue, green. Pitch black and bone white. The shell of a giant. A thousand mottled fragments of a hoard of cold-drakes. Sunflower yellow, catching what little light passed through the building snowstorm. Who had all of these shells hid from the world until their emergence? Thousands, she knew. So many had died already, but so many still had the chance to be born. Zerith almost pitied them; though stricken by evil, this was the only land that they might have considered to be ‘home’.

 

She felt it then; his call. Her body moved on its own, without even the tracest of efforts from Gostir. _What color will yours be? Silver, like your scales? Red, like your eyes? Or something else entirely, that I could never have seen?_ Zerith shifted upon the egg-sand and snow, forgetting all about the crunching and the ceramic and the long-forgotten eyes staring into the back of her skull. She forgot about the battles and the death and suffering. She remembered the _shard._

Zerith wondered if she would recognize the feeling of it in her hands, like the soft wool of a knitted doll that was lost-and-then-found. Would there be many egg-shards of his that she would need to stuff into her hood, and with each step have her time to know more lessen like the dwindling sand in an hourglass? Could it be such a large piece that she would tie it to her back, and feel its long-diminished warmth upon her back?

 

_Drake eggs are enveloped in fire or by the mist-breath by their mother before she leaves them. And then, one day or year or age, they choose to hatch. They remember the world in which they were put into, and choose to step into it._ Gostir reminisced as he brought her closer to the location of his egg-shard.

 

_What happens if the mother never does so?_ Zerith asked.

 

_They become hard as stone. Some of them wait. They wait forever. Others crumble like the shards beneath your feet._ He whispered to her, and she felt her blood chill.

 

_If you were created with freedom already granted to you, then why choose a world where others seek to take it from you?_ Zerith asked him.

 

He did not respond.

 

A few moments later, her feet stopped just before a pile of egg-sand. She heard the _crack!_ of the joints in her knees as she bent down. She felt _him,_ somewhere amongst the ash and dirt, and long forgotten dragons that never were. Her gloved hands began to dig through the pile. Her body was almost taken in by the pile completely; nose tickling at the touch of debris. She stopped searching as her fingers wrapped around a larger piece. Pulling it up and out of the whispered cries of its companions, she shone it in the light of the waning sun.

 

She saw a thousand colors then, but not in the sand beneath her. It fit perfectly into her cupped hands, reflecting his fire, the sea breeze that once carried his wings across the North, and bronzed spears. It curved, and she pressed it close to her heart. Zerith would ignore its chips and cracks to look upon the unmarred curvature of the outer peak. She stared at every inch of it until her eyes watered from the wind.

 

When she looked up again, the wind was gone. The snow and egg-shards remained, and the Heath still hugged her figure. Her fire was snuffed out and she fell to her knees, clutching her stomach as agony shot through her core. The egg-shard fell from her grasp and skittered away from her as she cried out in pain. _Why did you leave me, Gostir?_ She asked in vain, but he did not reply.

 

“Why did you leave me, Gostir?” A voice behind her asked. Zerith’s heart skipped a beat upon recognizing _that voice_. Though nearly paralyzed with pain, she painstakingly turned her body towards the sound.

 

“Why?” The woman sobbed, dragging her spear behind her. Zerith looked up at her face, but the woman’s eyes were concealed by hair that had long been matted with sweat, blood, and tears.

“Why would you leave me _now?_ ” She asked again, before throwing her spear to the side. The woman slowly began to approach where Zerith lay huddled amongst the remains of a hatchling’s first battle into the waxing world.

 

The pain resounded through every muscle, and every slight moment brought stars to Zerith’s eyes. She looked down at her abdomen to see that her parka was soaked in blood. Removing her hand from where it was clutched, it too was covered in clotted blood and dirt. Her eyes widened, unable to fully focus on the ghastly sight with her quivering form.

 

Her eyes slowly travelled to the woman’s midsection and saw it matched her own.

 

“I’ve given you so much,” The battered woman continued to plead, shuffling her feet slowly towards Zerith, “and you have answered only in pain!” Her voice rose from shouting into blood-curdling screams as she unsheathed the sword at her belt, thrusting it into the air wildly.

 

“I loved you, once! And you killed the true dragon.” She seethed, her face scrunching up behind the curtain of hair. Her free hand squeezed itself into a fist as she slowly lowered her sword, stopping at an arm’s length away from Zerith.

 

Zerith’s gut twisted, and she began to try and slowly move away from where the woman stood. But with each movement came blinding pain that forced her to stop and curl herself into a ball.

“But you did not kill Satherra. And she hates you.” Zerith looked up with a gasp to see Satherra’s sword-arm raised. She had only a moment to raise her arms above her in a desperate attempt for protection. Her eyes closed, waiting for the blow.

 

The sound of steel rang, but the blow never came. Zerith slowly lowered her hands and opened her eyes.

 

The pain washed away, as did the Heath and the cold. Instead, it was _hot._ Extremely hot, as though she were standing amongst a thousand dragons breathing flame. Darkness blanketed an immense cavern of obsidian walls and smooth stone floors. The smallest of skylights only permitted passing waves of sunlight to pour into the open room. She slowly rose to her feet, spotting the shadow of faces upon the wall before her. As she approached, they became clearer.

 

_Dwarves._ She brushed her fingers along the carved eyes and beards of an army of dwarf-folk cast upon the stone.

 

Suddenly the ground began to rumble beneath her feet, and she heard something sliding behind her. She turned and saw that an extraordinarily large and glittering jewel sat sparkling where Gostir’s egg-shard had slipped from her grasp. It cast a pale light despite being shrouded in the darkness of the underground. She stood rooted to the ground, marveling at how it felt like the coldest thing for miles.

 

And she could almost _feel_ for miles, it seemed. There was a trace of coldness around the cavern she stood in. _But where am I?_

 

“Where am I?” Zerith whispered.

 

“Where am I?” The cavern answered a hundred times, growing fainter with each fruitless response, until it died away and she only heard herself asking it in her mind.

 

She tried to remember why she had come here. The more she looked around at the bridged pathways cascaded in silence, the more she forgot. Eventually she forgot her own name. _Don’t tell him your name. He will use it against you. You must only riddle him._

The sound of drums resounded somewhere beyond the bridges without railings, but she saw no one else but herself, standing alone next to the glittering jewel.

 

“Who am I?” She asked the drums.

 

_You are who you choose to be,_ they answered, before finally dying alone in the dark.

 

Solid ground disappeared a few feet from the jewel, and she approached the ledge. She leaned her head forward so that she could see just beyond the edge of the stone, but saw nothing more but blackness for as far as her eyes could strain in the dim light.

 

The ground rumbled again with greater fury and she nearly fell into the chasm. The shining jewel was close to falling to its doom as well, stopped only by the edge of her boot. The hairs on the back of her neck raised as she heard the familiar _hiss_ of smoke and clamor of a large body.

 

“You cannot run from dragons, thief! Did you truly think yourself cunning to steal such a prize from my dragon-hoard?” The voice boomed in fury, quickly beginning to close the distance between where Zerith stood. Sweat began to drip down her back, yet the heat only increased as _he_ approached her.

 

_Valar, I want nothing more to do with dragons._

 

Zerith picked up the jewel, astonished at how it barely fit into her hand. She placed it in her pocket swiftly. Her hand was caught in her pocket as she tried to wrench it free, feeling the immense heat singing the hairs on her face even before she had caught sight of the dragon.

 

Then, she felt _it_. It bumped her finger, and she felt as though she were walking along the Northern Waste in the middle of a snowstorm. _I have something else in my pocket,_ she realized. As much as she longed to see what it was, her hand fought against her movements to free it from the warmth of her parka.

 

Eventually she was able to release her hand from her pocket, bringing with it the mysterious object. She held it in a ray of sunlight and it shone golden. _A ring_ , she noticed.

 

The heat of the room caused the ring to come to life, glowing and etched with words in an indecipherable tongue. But she heard them, whispered all around her. The words lay in her ears, upon her lips, through her hair, and in her heart.

 

The beast grew ever closer to her, but she couldn’t run. Her eyes were glued to that beautiful ring, unable to look past its etchings which seemed to be inked on her own skin. Valar, what secret gift she had discovered! Greater than the gem, greater than all things! She longed for the ring. It promised her so much more than the freedom she had once craved.

 

She slipped it onto her left ring finger. It fit perfectly. For a moment, there was clarity.

 

But the clarity soon passed, and her vision darkened even further. The echoing of immense footsteps grew louder until her head throbbed in pain. Her excitement turned to dread. Something was _wrong_.

 

Her ears agonized at the ever-nearing rumble of the great beast, and she heard the drums again, louder than before. She took a few steps back, away from the frenzy, but felt too paralyzed to run. The sounds were all around her, and she feared them greatly. They confined her within a cage of terror.

 

Then he appeared, armored in scales of bright red flame. He looked forward to where he guessed she was, looming over her with eyes of pure fire. Tendrils of smoke billowed from his nostrils, his lips twisted into a gnarled grin baring his sword-like teeth. The dragon stopped for a moment, slitted pupils narrowing in confusion as he scanned where she stood, frozen in fear.

 

“Thief, I know you are here! I know what you have taken!” He roared, and she let out a shriek, covering her ears. She regretted it, for he began to charge towards her again, blocking her view with his great red body.

 

_He didn’t see me, but he heard me?_

 

She began to slowly move backward, before remembering her fortitude and turning away from him to run as fast as she could. Zerith dared not look back; if he was right about to snatch her in his jaws, she decided it would be best to not see her doom approaching. Could anyone truly outrun a dragon? She doubted it, but this one seemed slow. His armor, encrusted in gold and treasures from his hoard, clinked as trinkets fell free from his array. _At least dragons cannot hide in stealth._

 

Across the stone bridges without railings, down endless flights of stairs, Zerith did not know where she was running to, as long as she was _running_. She felt as though she were slinking through the coldest of rivers, barely able to see in front of her, only egged on by the earsplitting roars of the dragon.

 

_The ring,_ she realized. _I wish I could take it off, but...I cannot take it off._ She spared it a glance as she sprinted, following its red-hot trail as her arms swung out to propel her body forward.

 

There was a thrumming in the distance, and a bright beam of light pierced her half-blinded vision. _An escape?_ She shot forward, forgetting about the drums and the dragon, even as his blazing heat threatened to engulf her with each movement.

 

“You will _burn_!” The fiery dragon bellowed. She had only a moment to recognize the sound of metallic ringing before her body instinctively dove forward into a roll, narrowly missing an enormous jet of flame which engulfed the entire room. The flames licked at her back and she still winced in pain from the sheer heat, but she rose to her feet and continued to run, hoping that the dragon would assume she had almost certainly have been vaporized.

 

She leapt into the bright white light of the outside world, swimming through the dizzying feeling of her feet touching air. When she finally lands on something solid, it sends a shockwave through her body that ricochets across all of her current aches and pains.

 

The skin on her back stretches and she knows it must be burned to some degree. She imagines her parka has already blackened. Yet she no longer feels the pain of fire. _If pain is fear, then what is injury?_ Zerith wonders.

Her head hung, bent below the crest of her shoulders as she crouched. Shaking from the pain and her exertions, Zerith rises to her feet, steadying her head and neck upon her shoulders and looking towards the horizon.

 

She stands upon a great wall, now, and in the distance views a ruined and crumbling city. A lake glimmers behind the ruins, and her eyes fall out of focus at the blur of brown buildings beyond. A blossoming forest begins to bloom on the edge of the lake, fanning out in shades of green and brown to her right. The forest is lively, but if she stares long enough, she can spot the darkness it hides.

 

Zerith looks down at her left hand. The ring is gone. She reaches into her pocket. The jewel has left her too.

 

When she looks up at the scene again, she is no longer alone.

 

Zerith leans forward on the grey stone battlements to see that war has come to her temporary safe refuge from the blaze. Far below the wall, three armies stand inevitably pitted against each other.

 

Dingy shadows of the forest mar the shimmering golden light that wraps around the forces of the Elven Kingdom. Each elf was faceless at such a distance away, yet Zerith knew they must have each had a look of resolution upon their visage. The elven king sat atop his mount at the forefront of his army, a crown of golden leaves atop his long hair. Zerith felt the energy and power he and his army emanated despite their still silence.

 

At a fair yet close distance away stood a disorganized but hearty-looking line of Northern Men. They seemed more like townsfolk than soldiers, but their countenances matched the elves. _Allies of the elves, then?_ Zerith pondered.

 

Dwarves were the last force she spotted, and they were fewest in number yet the most battle-hardened. After all, it seemed like they were the defending party, not the belligerents, for they stood in front of the gate below the battlements. She counted thirteen dwarves at the forefront of the party, their weapons already raised despite the stillness on the soon-to-be battlefield. _Such courage, even in the face of inevitable slaughter and casualties._

 

She had thought that to be the last of the line of potential fighting, but she looked past the armies to see an even greater danger: Orckind descending from the mountains at a charge straight towards the Free Peoples. Zerith spotted them far earlier than the Free Peoples did, for they crashed into the armies and the ranks were almost immediately lost. Chaos quickly began to spread on the field as the armies, separate yet in opposition against each other, clashed.

 

_I need to get out of here,_ she realized, her breath quickening. _But where can I flee?_ Zerith ran from the battlements and slid down a rocky slope hidden along the edge of where the wall had begun to crumble from the passage of time. _I hope the battle will be a good enough distraction so that I can sneak away._

She nearly tumbled head-first down the cliff, but clung to the rocky crevices that marked the mountain as she hurried to escape the growing frenzy of bloodlust and death. Willing herself not to look down as she climbed, Zerith sighed in relief as soon as her feet hit grass.

 

Zerith took one moment to gauge the distant between her and the battle before sizing up how much _more_ distance she could put between the two, bolting for the safety of the trees. Her black hair whipped her face and eyes, but she kept running, trying to get as far away from the mountain and clashing armies as possible.

 

The forest was a blur of green when she shot through it, darting over fallen trees and rocks as her feet carry her forward. She hears no sound except for her own panting breaths, not even the chirping of birds of crackle of leaves beneath her feet. It seemed like an eternity was passing her by as she ran, yet she never grew too tired enough to push further.

 

The trees began to thin as she travelled, slowly beginning to be replaced by elaborately entwined birchwood formations. Eventually, there was a break in the tree line, where smooth stone bricks replaced the dirt at her feet. She slowed as she heard two voices in the yellow-green haze in front of her.

 

“I did not kill her, my lord! I swear it, by my life, and by the Valar!” Zerith’s heart skipped a beat. _Uirien_. What was she doing in this beautiful forest, of all places? 

 

Zerith eventually came to view the owners of the two voices, who stood by a carved throne of stone and birch, matching all she had seen. Uirien, her mahogany hair cloaking her trembling frame, knelt bowing before the elven lord standing just before the throne, his head adorned with golden leaves. Zerith raised her eyebrows, looking back to where she had just come. _The same elf here and on the battle? Unless they are twins...and elven twins rarely happen..._

 

“No, you did not,” The elven lord sneered, his voice laced with malice. “But it matters not. I have given you a choice, Uirien. Be exiled or be beheaded. Your darkness has polluted my kingdom. I have given you a chance to rectify your wrongdoings and you have proven my suspicions to be correct.”

 

“Please, my king. It was a mistake, just a mistake.” Uirien pleaded. Zerith stepped between them since they did not seem to be able to see her. Tears streamed from the elleth’s grey upturned eyes.

 

“A mistake that left my son without a mother,” The king hissed under his breath before turning and walking away, his gilded hair and robe fading into the mists. Uirien sunk deeper into the floor as she cried, her gown of red spreading like blood across the stone around her. She wept for what seemed like an eternity, and eventually Zerith knelt down next to her, wondering at how such an elf with a gentle appearance could have grown so cold. _This_ must have been the reason why.

 

Eventually, Uirien wiped her tears away, her gaze hardening. Water was replaced with fire as she slowly rose to her feet, picking up her skirts and walking along a pebbled path cutting through the forest. She stopped at a stable, saying her good-byes to the dark-haired elf who was master of the horses, before mounting a grey stallion and cantering away. Zerith swiftly mounted one of the other horses at the stable and trailed the elleth through the trees.

 

As it had before, the trees slowly began to thin. Foliage wove itself into baskets, and the chirping of birds was replaced with the barking of dogs. The crisp smell of the woods waltzed into sweetmeats and freshly-baked pies. Zerith’s vision unfolded into white roads, a great blue sky, and buildings of stone. The aspen trees of the great forest blackened, waving in the wind atop an ivory field. _Minas Tirith_ , Zerith realized, as she narrowly missed a group of playing children running in front of her horse. They did not look up, however, continuing to run as though she were never there at all.

 

In her distraction, Uirien had disappeared somewhere in the heart of the city. It had been such a long time since Zerith had been home, and she scarcely remembered all of the passageways. Rather than go galloping after the elven woman and end up even more lost, Zerith slowly left her place in one of the back alleys to the main road, looking up to the clouds and spotting the familiar curvature of a black stone roof somewhere in the distance. Her gut twisted in anxiety, but she began to make her way to it nevertheless.

 

The alley widened to attach to the main circle, a pavilion with a white marble fountain. Mothers nursed their infants, sitting in the golden sun of the early afternoon upon intricately carved benches. One of the baker’s shouts caught her attention, whipping her head around to recognize the steaming strawberry pies he had on display at his stand. Her mother always bought them for her, never caring when Zerith’s strawberry-stained fingers would stain her skirts.

 

Zerith took another road in the direction of the residential area, smiling down at the spear-wielding guards, their tabards emblazoned with the White Tree of her city. Her smile faded away once she recognized the guard’s face. She squeezed her legs and her horse quickened, allowing the man’s face to become a blur behind her. She passed each of the houses upon the road and their neatly-trimmed hedges, remembering having played with many of the children that lived upon her road.

 

Finally, she spotted the black stone house fenced with golden flowering bushes. _Home,_ she reminded herself, even though she had parted from it both times out of sorrow. After stabling the horse, she slowly approached the door. Zerith had learned her lesson once. Wherever she went, she left sadness and despair. What would she find in the home of her birth this time, she wondered?

 

She knocked three times; slowly and loudly. Zerith took a step back, and waited.

 

The door opened, and Zerith was greeted with a beaming smile and emerald green eyes.

 

“Zerith, you’re home! Pick up anything good at the market for us, did you?” Her mother was draped in a creamy pink dress embroidered with yellow sunflowers, her auburn hair long and straight upon her shoulders. The wrinkles in her smile deepened as she held open the door for her daughter. “Come in, now. Wouldn’t want you to drop the bread. Who did you get it from today? Calardaer? I’m surprised you didn’t buy a pie today from him. Or did you go to Aphadrien, the watch-captain’s daughter? The girl is an artist with her pastries, truly.” Faendes continued to talk as she walked through the foyer. Zerith slowly closed the door behind her, shakily following her mother. _Am I dead?_ She felt as though she were in a trance.

 

“Go ahead and put what you bought on the table in the kitchen, darling. I’ll prepare some dinner for us. You must be tired from your studies.” Her mother glided into the kitchen, red hair shimmering like silk as she seemed to move without disturbing even a single particle of dust. She retrieved an apron from the cupboard in the kitchen, dying it at her waist and moving to chop vegetables.

 

Zerith’s eyes were glued to her mother’s abdomen. She crept towards her mother’s figure before slipping her hand behind the apron, gently probing the lean shape of her stomach. It was _whole_...and not bloody. _Clean, so clean._

 

“What’s wrong, dear?” Her mother paused to look up from the tomato she had been chopping, her brows furrowed as she looked down.

Zerith froze.

 

“Can you...see me?” Zerith whispered, tears welling at the corners of her blue eyes. Her mother resumed chopping.

 

“Oh, you mustn’t say things like that! I’m sure they did not mean to hurt your feelings. You are a very pretty young lady, Zerith. Smart and strong like your father, too. Never let anyone convince you otherwise.”

 

Her heart fell as she realized what was happening. It was the exact same conversation she had with her mother on the day in which she first used her fire-breath. She had been in the library earlier, and some of the children had been making fun of her father. Zerith had never usually been bothered much by what other people had to say about her parentage, but on this day, she had been extremely upset.

 

“We are not always born into the easiest of situations. But it is not our birth which determines how great we will be. It is how far we rise up and above the path predicted for us.” Her mother turned to where she stood, flashing her daughter a small smile before continuing. “Now, why don’t we--”

 

There was a frantic knock on the door, and Zerith’s heart jumped.

 

“Oh, dear Zerith. Won’t you be kind and see who it is?” Her mother asked. _No, this cannot be happening._ She obeyed and left the safety and warmth of the kitchen to stand in the foyer. Opening the mahogany door, she was met with sheer terror.

 

Four children were jumping up and down in front of the door. The young boy at the forefront was blonde-haired with a cruel smirk etched upon his face. Another girl with red hair and freckles raised her hands above her head and stretched. The last two children were twins, brother and sister, with sable hair and eyes and tanned skin.

 

“I knew we would find you! Just had to make up some dumb story about how you left one of your favorite books in the library.” The blonde boy began, pulling a small book from the bag draped upon his shoulder and flailing it in the air. Some of its pages tore from the binding and flew away into the wind. Zerith seethed in anger, recognizing it was one of the older books she had favored regarding Gondorian history.

 

“Now that we found your _lovely_ home, we want to hear more about your father! Is it true he was as tall as a giant?” The red-haired girl asked, splaying her arms out and walking around like she was crushing humans beneath her feet, not ants.

 

“Did he really steal your mother away?” The twin girl pondered, shyly batting her eyelashes at where Zerith stood.

 

“How did they even...” The twin boy snorted, scrunching his nose up and shaking his head. The children continued to laugh, and Zerith began to sweat. _Was it always so hot in Minas Tirith?_

 

“I bet you wish you could just grow wings and fly like the pigeon you are. Isn’t that right, Gray-wings?” The blonde boy sneered, the other children bursting into cruel, screeching laughter. The twin boy unbuttoned his shirt, exposing his neck, and began to flap it like wings, much to the merciless amusement of the other kids. She felt as though she were on fire. The younger version of her would never had said anything, but Zerith was no longer afraid of snot-nosed brats.

 

“I’d prefer to fly on dragon’s wings,” she answered, just before the children were set ablaze.

 

The blonde boy had been burnt the worst, falling back with a scream as his face bubbled and became virtually unreadable. His shirt caught fire and continued to burn his skin. The red-haired girl’s outstretched hands were licked by the flames too, and Zerith nearly gagged at the smell of burning flesh. She did not see the other two children; they probably fled in the chaos.

 

Her mother had come running and began to scream at the sight of the mottled children lying on the ground, rolling in agony. One of the guards came, too, and Zerith wished he had a weapon to gut him. She turned back towards the kitchen and wondered if she should have gone for a butter knife.

 

“What have you done?” Zerith’s mother shrieked, sinking to the floor next to the door. “Go, Zerith. I can’t bear to look at...this. Go! Run!” Her mother held her face in her hands, sobbing as the guards began to swarm the two children. Zerith pushed past them, too nauseous to see anymore.

 

She ran past the growing crowd to the higher levels, seeking somewhere with greater air so she wouldn’t feel as though she were suffocating. Invisible to the guards at each gate, she made it to the Citadel before she bumped into something _hard_ and fell flat on her face, dazed by her nostalgic stupor.

 

“I searched for hours, paying special attention to the ‘D’ section, but to no avail. Nothing about her connection, nor about the witch.” Zerith’s heart jumped and she slowly picked her head off of the ground to see that she had been enveloped in the shade of a wide-brimmed, grey pointy hat.

“Perhaps it is the unseen which must be brought to the light,” Another voice replied, and Zerith leapt to her feet to see Gandalf and another wizard cloaked in brown walking through the court before the great Tower of Ecthelion.

 

“Is _that_ truly what you mean to suggest, Radagast?” Gandalf said gruffly, stopping in his tracks.

 

The brown wizard, Radagast, only grinned beneath the brim of his own hat.

 

“Who can say? Witches and wizards, dragons and dwarves. One might think that we have invested too much time in Middle Earth’s affairs.” The brown wizard chuckled, turning and striding along the prow of Minas Tirith, where many guards gave the Maiar bewildered looks beneath their helms.

 

“There is still so much more to do,” Gandalf replied, stroking the silver hairs on his beard. The two wizards walked in silence until they reached the tip of the prow, where they looked at the horizon, and towards Mordor.

 

“You mean to continue your quest for knowledge and secrets here, then?” Radagast asked, and the Grey Wizard nodded.

 

“I have already been away from Zerith for far too long to not produce fruit for my efforts. No matter what I find, I sense that it may affect the future of Middle Earth in some way.”

 

            “Do you truly think that girl is still residing in the ramshackle cabin in the middle of nowhere, all alone?” Radagast laughed, earning only a frown from his fellow Maiar.

 

            “If she does not, then I shall find her. She deserves to know the truth, if truth can be found.”

 

            Zerith gasped and took a few steps back, before the movement of her body nearly caused her to stumble. Her heart raced, knowing she was close to the tip of Minas Tirith’s prow.

 

            _He’s looking for me...or will look for me. And he went to Minas Tirith! He may have parted from me suddenly...but he still wants to aid me. Perhaps hope is not lost for me,_ Zerith thought.

 

The scene of the two wizards became watered and blurry, like paint that had been mixed too much, turning into a colorless brown smudge. Twisting and turning, Zerith’s vision eventually cleared to reveal a steep stepped pyramid, towering in the place that the Tower of Ecthelion once had in her vision. It was smooth; flawlessly formed by stone and then layered in bronze. It had four entrances on each side of the pyramid, concealed with a crimson curtain which could be drawn back to allow visitors into the pyramid’s innards. Thin trees of lush green sprouted at the foot of the pyramid, opening to reveal a large mosaic fountain and an array of flowers which circled it. Between the fountain and gardens sat intricately woven rugs, plush pillows, and benches enabling one to fully enjoy the cool relief of the fountain’s mists.

 

The golden sun hung high in the sky, unburdened by clouds. Zerith had never felt so hot in her life, even as she looked down to see a sleeveless gown of red wrapping around her willowy frame. A large weighted golden necklace encrusted with jade and silvery jewels rested upon her collarbone. Zerith was grateful to feel the breeze upon her neck as she reached toward the back of her head, finding that her hair had been braided up and away from her shoulders.

 

Even more so than the sweltering heat in wherever she currently stood, she felt a _fire_ within her, stronger than she ever had before. She felt strong, even without weapons. Never before would she have thought to be able to find such confidence and pride within herself, but it surged within her as she stood, wiggling her toes and gazing at the large city standing before her.

 

She stood on a large balcony below the pyramid’s gaze, looking upon domed clay buildings, vast granaries, golden towers, and roads with a myriad of colorful street wares and people running about for as far as she could see. On the distant horizon to her right was a glimmering blue sea with a dotted green island floating on its surface. Zerith smelled heady wine on the wind as she looked out for as far as she could see.

 

Leaning with white knuckles over the balcony’s edge, her head whipped back as the air surged upwards with a roar. Her eyes watered with the cool air and closed, hearing the beat of _wings_ above her head. She opened them, raising her head to the sky to watch as the great silvery beast drifted through the air, his great red slitted eye dipping down to gaze upon her for a moment before he flapped his leathered wings again, circling the pyramid in a flash of silver and disappearing behind it.

 

The dragon had come and gone, yet it felt as though he were never there. Zerith shook her head to remove herself from her trance, and her ears picked up at the sound of many voices crying out from somewhere below her. She shivered, and hesitantly looked beyond the balcony railing again.

 

Many leagues below the balcony stood what must have been thousands of people of all faces and characteristics, looking up towards the pyramids and raising their hands. Their words overlapped each other in a noisy chaos, but over the roar, phrases were being chanted. She could not understand anything of what they were saying, but they kept trying to reach up towards the sun and its warmth.

 

Her head began to buzz and she felt like she could have fallen from the balcony and right into their waiting arms. The warmth -- and the shock and energy of it all -- was making her light-headed. Where was she? And more importantly, _why_ was she here?

 

She escaped the chanting of the city, withdrawing into the safety of the cool pyramid. Pulling back the crimson curtain that barred her passage into the temple’s heart, the cries and shouts of the crowds nearly disappeared, muffled by the red tapestries concealing the temple from prying eyes.

 

It was barren inside, the slate stones encased in moss. The room was lit by a single open skylight at the peak of the stone pyramid, illuminating a stone table that was the temple’s only feature. There were doors lining each side of the pyramid, but when she tried the knob at each of them, she found them to be locked tight.

 

Zerith should have felt nothing more than an easy calmness as she approached the table, but instead she felt afraid. The hair on her arms raised as soon as her hand brushed the table’s rough surface.

 

She felt _him_. He was here, and all she could feel. For the first time, she felt truly _loved_. All she wanted was to be with _him_ , for all of her days. How could she not have realized it sooner?

 

But he was gone, she knew. Long gone. Her sweet sorrow sunk her to her knees, and she pressed her forehead to the coolness of the stone.

 

This should have been a place of life, but it was shrouded in death.

 

And it was her fault. She was empty. How could she continue living when _he_ was her life?

 

Tears fell freely from her eyes as she vowed never to forget. How could she forget? She heard her name beginning to be chanted again, but she did not look up.

 

“Is this what you want?” In a whisper, she bolted up. The temple was gone. She wore her old leather armor instead of a flowing dress.

 

Hassun stood before her, his deep brown eyes glistening in the light of morning. Snow began to gather atop his hair and upon his outstretched hand.

 

She could not stop looking between his hand and those eyes. Did he know?

 

_Is this what I want?_

 

Zerith tried to look behind her, to where the temple once stood in her vision.

 

“Are you sure you want this?” He asked her. She feared that she could not meet his eyes, but forced herself to. There he still stood, waiting. At a crossroads, she realized.

 

He presented her with a choice, but she doubted it could really be a choice at all.

 

As though he were disappointed with her inaction, Hassun lowered his hand and turned to walk away. She followed him to where a riverbed formed. Zerith saw herself, lying face-first in a pile of pebbles.

 

Hassun knelt down gingerly to where her form laid. Gently, he turned her over to face the sky, and brushed away the strands of dark hair which covered her sleeping face.

 

Then he began to sing.

 

She heard no words, just the sweetly soothing sound of his voice as he picked her limp form up as though it were weightless. He walked through the mists and she followed diligently, watching as Applegrabber materialized in the distant greyness of her vision. Hassun hoisted her upon her horse before mounting Applegrabber, pulling her into his chest tightly with a strong arm wrapped around her abdomen.

 

Zerith followed his slow pace atop her mount, at first easily being able to follow Applegrabber side by side. Hassun’s song faded into a hum. Still unrecognizable, but she guessed it was more for comfort than anything else, as his mouth hovered over her ear. He urged Applegrabber forward and she broke into a sprint trying to keep with him, but he quickly faded into the mists.

 

“Zerith,” She heard her name called again. Panting, she turned on her heels towards the sound.

Hassun stood with the brightest smile she had ever seen on his face. His eyes were warm -- almost _too_ familiar -- as he gazed at the spot where she stood.

 

“I have something wonderful to show you,” He continued, turning and walking away while holding out his arm for her. She began to follow him, but with each step it grew harder to keep a fast pace. There were weights attached to her lower legs, increasing their mass with every movement. As she continued to struggle, the air around her grew frigid. It froze her lungs with each heaving breath. The beads of sweat forming on the back of her neck crystallized.

 

“Aren’t you coming? Don’t you want to see?” Hassun chuckled, pausing to look over his shoulder at where she stood. He extended his hand, but she still could not reach it. Her hands and toes had gone numb and bluish. Every labored step she took brought her further away from that hand.

If she could just reach _it_ \-- reach him --, but she could not see him in the wintery haze anymore. He kept calling her name and she just couldn’t do it. But Valar, she wanted to. What did he have to show her? What did he have to _offer_ her?

 

“Zerith,” he said again, his voice languidly warm and relaxed. She felt his warm breath upon her face and blinked slowly. She stretched out her hand to where his had been.

 

“Zerith,” he said again, further away. The wind blew some of the snow away and she saw the egg-shard glimmering in the light. She reached for it and placed it securely in her pocket.

 

“Zerith,” came a pained voice, and the ice melted. The pains of her battle hit her all at once, and she collapsed to the ground, acutely aware of her _being_ and _existence_. She took her chilled face in her hands and wished above everything to weep, but no tears came. The mist dissipated and she was alone. No more dreams, no more possibilities, nothing. Alone with herself, and she had lost. An opportunity was offered, but she just was not strong enough.

 

She heard the familiar sound of hoofbeats upon the frozen soil and uncovered her face to struggle to her knees.

 

The snow had still not stopped from falling upon the Withered Heath, but eventually she was able to see a horse and its rider approaching at an excruciating pace.

 

“Hassun?” She yelled out in the snowstorm. She was able to make out the color of a bay horse, and then finally the familiar countenance of Applegrabber.

 

“It’s alright, I’m here, Zerith.” Hassun confirmed with lazy, slurred speech. When he finally entered into her full range of sight, all she saw was _blood_. His face, body, and her horse were all covered in it. Applegrabber halted just before where she stood, and Hassun’s eyes rolled back into his head as he slowly slipped from the saddle and to the ground. Zerith shrieked and raced over to his crumpled form, trying her best to ignore the myriad of sharp pains all over her own body. Applegrabber sniffed at her shoulder in concern at the pair.

 

She slowly turned his heavy body over. His eyes were opening and closing endlessly, yet his gaze was still acutely trained upon her. He wore a pained grin, and she brushed his hair away to look upon him further, her hand resting lightly upon his cheek. Zerith examined him further, finding that she doubted there was anywhere where he _wasn’t_ wounded. _How many orcs did he fight to get to me? And how did he make it this far?_

 

“What have you gotten yourself into, now?” She asked him with a furrowed brow, her voice watery as she sucked in all the cold air she could.

 

“Trying to find you,” he began, his breathing labored as his head lolled occasionally in her hold. “Fought my way out. Went to the stables. Found Applegrabber. Found you.”

 

“Valar, look at you!” She cried, tears slipping freely from her cheeks and mixing into the fresh blood on his coat. The coat barely clung to his form, having so many cuts and tears that it barely resembled clothing at all. Zerith could barely even see _him_ , for his face was caked in mud and blood.

 

“Don’t cry,” his shaky hand travelled to wipe her tears away, “I’ll be alright. I came...to find you.” His throat bobbed with the struggle of simple speech.

 

“We need to get you to the healers back at the camp right away.” She insisted, beginning to attempt to lift him up, her efforts answered by a groan of pain from the both of them. _Please, Valar. No matter what happens to me, let him live. Even if he’s a stupid man and this is all his fault._

 

“No,” Hassun almost yelled, some semblance of strength surging back into his deep brown eyes. “Just wanted to see you...take us away. Far away...” He trailed off, and she stared at his own fixed gaze.

 

“And abandon your own people?” Zerith scoffed, nearly choking on her own tears. She nearly screamed as a wound stretched at her side, but directed her pain towards hauling him back up onto her mount with some assistance from her beloved horse. She held him in place upon the saddle, in fear that he would simply fall again. He looked down at her and responded with choked laughter.

 

“And abandon you?” He asked her in an almost mocking tone. If he had more strength, he would have thrown his head back and grinned at her out of the corner of his eye. But he was fading, and fading _fast_. She saw it in how his body began to slump.

 

Zerith mounted her horse, attempting to muffle her own pained gasps as she sat behind him in the saddle, her free arm clutching the part of his midsection that did not seem to be covered with lacerations.

 

“Don’t die trying to save me,” He whispered to her, but she heard it as though it were the only sound in the world. “I only wanted to tell you...” He never finished his sentence, growing quiet as Zerith felt his full weight shift into resting on her petite form.

 

“No,” she began, any further words kept in by her sobs. She leaned forward and rested her head on his shoulder, pressing her cheek into where he was still warm. She tasted the iron in his blood, and felt her own frantic heartbeat pounding against his back.

 

“You can’t do this to me. I won’t let you!” She shouted, pulling the reins to turn Applegrabber around and back toward the Tarakona encampment. Zerith urged him on at a pace she hoped would get them to help fast enough, but not to where they both would fly out of the saddle.

 

She could not see anything else but him in the snowstorm. She kept shouting his name, hoping he would answer in kind. Her thoughts raced; she could just imagine it. A world without battles, without pain and evil, with just him.

 

“Zerith,” he would call her name, and she would look up and smile at him. He would come so very close to where she could feel his sweltering heat, and he would forget what he had meant to tell her, pink blossoming on his cheeks.

           

 

            “Zerith,” he would call, not for the dragon but for the woman. The simple woman, truly a fragile girl, who hid behind wings of silver.

 

            He would ask for no other name, demand nothing else of her but _herself_. He would _know_ , and _understand_. Could there ever be a time for just them?

 

            It seemed, unfortunately, that her freedom had been a string measured, drawn, and cut at the Withered Heath. It had been severed from the blood trail they produced as the black-haired woman, her noble horse, and her doomed savior shifted through the drifting snows in the waning grey light. There was no _if._ There had been nothing at all.

 

-o-

 

            “Forgive me, Chieftain. But I don’t know where he went!” Eska begged on her knees before Chieftain Massak and the other leaders of the North. They stood upon the ice-wall beneath the full moon, the stars hidden by flame and smoke from the battle that had come and gone.

 

            “Tell me again what you saw,” Massak demanded, his voice struggling to stay steady lest the other leaders think him weak.

 

            “I saw the woman -- Zerith -- and her display, and then it was chaos. I did not see Hassun for some time. _Gods_ , there was so much fire and black clouds. When I did, however, he was stumbling towards the stables by way of the secret entrance. He was covered in blood and struggled to mount the woman’s horse. I tried to stop him, I swear! I did not want to hurt him however.”

 

            “What did he say?” Yrjö asked, arms crossing and concealing the glittering snakes from the cool of the moonlight.

 

            “He just said that he had to find her, and make things right. I tried to tell him it was madness, but he galloped right out of the front gate straight towards the Heath!” The Tarakona woman cried, running her hands through frazzled blonde hair.

 

            The leaders turned and looked at each other, before turning back to the battle. Even hours later, the piled bodies of orcs and men alike were still alit in a blaze that the tribesmen all recognized as _dragon-fire_. To Massak’s amazement and dismay, Zerith’s display had sent a shockwave through the battle. It had been one of the turning points which helped to secure their victory and livelihood, along with Hassun’s charge and the other heroic acts the leaders had witnessed from the safety of the wall.

 

            “My only son...” Massak mumbled to himself as he turned to gaze upon the innards of the encampment. So many lives lost and so many men injured. He watched as countless northerners and men of his own clan were carried to the makeshift healing tents. He imagined his son as one of them, or as one of the many bodies lying in the Great Tent, their faces covered with a cloth.

            “Chieftain Massak,” Yrjö began, a frown forming on Massak’s face at his displeasure with the Lossoth’s rather smug tone. “I know how much pain you must be feeling from all of the loss of lives and your son’s disappearance. But we can’t risk anymore men on what could be a fruitless venture. You watched the Easterling’s retreat. Who knows how many more orcs could be out there? And what about the woman? Who knows what she has done...”?

 

            “We don’t have to,” Eska said, her eyes staring far away towards the Withered Heath. The leaders turned to her, and Yrjö’s mouth hung agape.

 

            “What?” The Lossoth asked, before his eye twitched. Faint shouting could be heard from somewhere out in the distant darkness. The guards atop the ice-wall bristled, hands readying for their javelins.

 

            “Look!” Eska exclaimed, pointing towards the source of the sound.

 

            “I found them!” Mhafi shouted breathlessly as he ran towards the Tarakona camp. “I found them! They are right behind me!” He kept shouting and running until the whole camp had been roused by his excited stupor.

 

            Eska, Massak, and the other leaders rushed to meet the exasperated dwarf at the front gates, who promptly collapsed to the ground. More Tarakona came, the guards and Clan-Mother Purnaq gathering at the opening, watching and waiting.

 

            Finally, the figure of a horse and its riders emerged from the storm. The first thing the Tarakona saw was their Chieftain’s son slumped upon the crest of the horse’s neck, his clothing tarnished and bloody with weapons nowhere to be seen. The dark-haired woman, barely able to support her own posture, held Hassun’s body as securely as possible atop her mount. She looked upon the Tarakona with wide, tearful eyes.

 

            As soon as Applegrabber stopped, the Clan-Mother called for the Tarakona to take Hassun away. Eska stood back from the chaos, watching the hesitation in Zerith’s death-like grip at letting Hassun go. Even after Hassun disappeared in the crowd of tribesmen, Zerith’s eyes were locked upon him. Eska approached her slowly as Zerith shakily dismounted her horse, clinging to the saddle to even be able to stand.

 

            Cowering, Zerith turned to Eska and simply said, “Please, let him live,” before she fell into the Tarakona woman’s arms and fell unconscious.

           

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm...just what could those visions truly mean? And what will happen to Hassun and Zerith after the dragon has shown its colors in the north?


	13. Igniting the Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going on a feels trip! CHOO-CHOO!
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

 

Chapter 13: Igniting the Truth

 

            It was dark when Zerith awoke. She thought it would have been a bright white. Death was supposed to be pain-free, so why did her back ache?

 

            She opened her eyes as her body throbbed with pain to stare up at the leather roof of a tent, glowing orange in firelight. Her hands stretched out, soft furs gliding beneath her fingertips. She looked down, her neck twinging painfully, to see that she was lying in a large bed covered in warm fur blankets. The tent was rounded and far larger than Eska’s, no doubt meant for storage purposes. It was fairly barren except for the bed and her armor and pack on the ground to her left, as well as a roaring fire in the center of the tent. The most peculiar sight was the two Tarakona guards standing next to the tent’s flap, gripping their spears tightly as they looked up at her.

 

            She did not have to say a word before one of them looked to the other and gave him a curt nod before disappearing into the cold air.

 

            It took her a moment of hissed, slight movements, but she was finally able to prop herself up. She wore a thin fur shirt and pants. Her midsection and arms were bulked in some places by bandages.

 

            It was only then, upon poking the bandages lightly out of her hazy confusion, did everything rush back to her.

 

            _I’m not dead._ She felt chilled. Zerith guessed she should have been happy to be alive, but a horrible sinking feeling was weighing down her heart.

 

            _Deep breaths,_ she told herself. _Focus on what you remember._

_I am Zerith, daughter of Graywynd and Faendes. I am from Minas Tirith. I am eighteen, soon to be nineteen, years old. A dragon lives within me. Gandalf found me and raised me after I fled my home. Then he abandoned me. I met Hassun in Bree. My mother and uncle were murdered by the Unscathed, who were the children I burnt when I first breathed fire. Hassun and I travelled to the Tarakona lands. I met a dwarf. I discovered more than just dragon-fire. I fought in a large battle, killing orcs for the first time. The Tarakona know my secret. I ran to the Withered Heath and found Gostir’s egg-shard. I received visions, and made a choice. Hassun came to save me. We went back to the encampment._

            _Hassun,_ her mind whispered, and her heart thrummed with anxiety. He had been barely clinging to life when he had found her. She supposed neither of their ideas had been very wise. He wanted to run away with her, but she took him back to the Tarakona lands. Did he even have enough time left to continue living with either path? Her hands shook.

 

            _I need to see him, to find out what happened to him. To let him know that I_ know _._ Zerith looked up at the guard, and doubted he would let her leave if she tried.

 

            _They don’t trust me_ , Zerith realized. That had to be the reason that she was being guarded, even when she was unconscious. Why they did not just kill her and be done with it, Zerith did not know. And why had they spent time and resources mending her wounded body when there were hundreds of men who had been seriously wounded in the battle?

 

            _I don’t even trust me anymore, so I suppose I cannot blame them for their caution. Life is harsh in the North._

 

            The tent flap rustled, and Zerith’s heart leapt. The guard returned to his post, flashing Zerith only a frown of disdain. Behind him, Mhafi entered.

 

            She had never seen the dwarf look so forlorn before. His eyes were glued to the ground, a frown marking his downtrodden appearance. Mhafi looked clean and relatively unscathed from the battle, wearing only a large gash upon his cheek to signify he had been in the battle at all. When he saw Zerith awake and upright, however, his eyes warmed considerably.

 

            “Oh, my dear Zerith.” He whispered, water rippling in his voice as he slowly walked around the fire. She noticed that his hands were shaking.

_You must be afraid of me, too._ She realized. _Dwarves and dragons don’t mix._

 

            He pushed himself up to sit at the foot of her bed, giving her a once-over before the frown deepened and he returned his gaze to his swinging feet.

 

            “Trouble always seems to follow you, doesn’t it, lass?” He asked her, voice laced in sadness.

 

            “It would seem that _I_ am trouble,” Her voice was hoarse. She coughed, her sore body resounding in the wave of sorrow that he pushed towards her.

 

            “Perhaps,” He agreed somberly. “I know that you cannot possibly answer this, but why? I asked the Clan-Mother all about you. She told me about this Gostir fellow, and his connection to these lands. Why would you come here? Why would you expose yourself?”

 

            “I needed answers,” Zerith began, her voice almost too thick with emotion to speak properly. “I wanted to know what everything meant. I did not mean to breathe fire during the battle. I was separated from our group, and disarmed. The Easterling leading the battle...he wanted me. Knew who I was, I suppose, or felt it. The orcs tried to capture me. I was powerless...until _he_ took over and lit them all ablaze.” She began to piece together the events, but they seemed as far away as her home.

 

            “What do you mean, _‘he’_?” Mhafi asked, scratching his beard and taking her hand. He squeezed it lightly.

 

            “Gostir,” Zerith replied. “We speak to each other, and I see him in my dreams when he allows it. There was one other time he took over completely. He fills me with a dragon’s strength and allows me to survive. I had no choice. I would have died.”

 

            “By Aulë,” Mhafi cried, shaking his head. “To think that you _talk_ to a dragon regularly...”

 

            “I know it sounds incredibly dangerous and strange.” Zerith said sheepishly.

 

            “That is because it _is_ , Zerith! Dragons are beasts of the Necromancer, and are powerful foes!” He yelled. “I do not have to tell you how much power and sway they can have on mortals.”

 

            “Some more than others,” She agreed.

 

            “What if he were to hold complete control over you?” Mhafi inquired. “What then?”

 

            “I would be nothing more than a husk used to serve his will. He does not want that, however, and I doubt he could thrive in this mortal form anyway.”

 

            _You doubt my prowess?_ Gostir hissed. She shivered at the sudden intrusion and rubbed her temple.

 

            _I doubt your social skills,_ Zerith retorted.

 

            “Zerith, he is a dragon. You cannot imagine how much destruction he could unleash hidden within the confines of a young woman.”

 

            “I can imagine, because I have seen it,” She reminded him, her scarred face feeling tight and pinched.

 

            “I suspect you -- and everyone at the battle -- only saw a mere glimpse of his power.” Mhafi warned.

 

            “I do not know what I can say to appease you, Mhafi. I cannot change who I am, though I have tried, and am still trying.” She sighed.

 

            “It is not me who you must appease, Zerith. It is the Tarakona.” At his words, the two guards looked up at her. She saw the anger and hatred burn in their eyes. “They plan to decide on what to do with you as soon as you are able. You are lucky, because they want to give you a chance to speak, and explain yourself. I should mention that I suggested it!” His hand released from hers as he gestured while speaking.

 

            “Ah, so you are my savior, then?” Zerith grinned at the dwarf.

 

            “As much as I would love to be, lass, I have only given you time. You must save your own life. I will do what I can to help you, starting with your argument. Tell me what happened after your fiery display, so that we can sort things out.” He rolled his shoulders as his body twisted towards her, giving her his full attention.

 

            “Gostir forced me to walk towards the Withered Heath, and scale its mountains. You see, the main reason why I agreed to come with Hassun to the North was because Gostir wanted to find his egg-shard. He believed that it would hold memories that could help us understand our situation. I went to the Heath, and found his egg-shard.

 

            When I touched it, I was enveloped in strange visions. Visions of the past...perhaps the present, and perhaps what may come in the future. I cannot say. Eventually I was brought out of my visions by Hassun’s arrival upon my horse. He was badly wounded, near death. He wanted me to...”

 

            “To what, lass? Keep going,” Mhafi insisted. Her heart was hammering.

 

            “To run away with him, far away from the battlefield,” Her voice grew quieter, noting the guards’ presence. “I refused, and instead managed to take him back to the Tarakona encampment hoping he could be healed. That is the last thing that I can remember.”

 

            “Hmm,” He rubbed his beard, searching her eyes. “Think hard, lass. There is nothing else you can think of?” Zerith shook her head.

 

            “Tell me about the visions in particular, then.” Mhafi asked, the bed creaking with his weight.

 

            “The first was of a woman named Satherra. I hope the Clan-Mother told you about her. She was Gostir’s apprentice, a Tarakona woman. She had betrayed him -- or perhaps Gostir betrayed her also, I do not know -- and was abandoned by the Tarakona. After that vision, I found myself in a dwarf-hall, fleeing from a red dragon with fiery eyes and a beautiful stone and ring in my pocket.

 

 Then, I witnessed a battle between Men, Elves, Dwarf-folk, and Orcs. I fled into a forest and was witness to an exchange between an elven lord and an elleth. I followed the elleth to Minas Tirith, my home, and witnessed the memory of my first fire-breath. Then I saw two Wizards. Minas Tirith faded into a great city far unlike anything I have ever seen before, Gostir flying in the air, and a stone temple of sorrow. Then...” She looked down at the fur blankets, unable to meet the dwarf’s intense stare.

 

“What is it, lass?” Mhafi whispered, squeezing her hand. She looked at the guards, but believed them to not be concentrating on her words, but rather her actions. Zerith continued, but quietly.

 

“Visions involving Hassun. They were mostly nonsensible, but I had a worrying feeling about them.”

 

Mhafi nodded in understanding, patting his ruddy cheek. “Nearly all of them sound nonsensible.  The dwarf-hall and the dragon, as well as the battle following it are familiar to me. You must have been in Erebor, ‘neath the Lonely Mountain, when it was inhabited by the cruel fire drake, Smaug. And the Battle of the Five Armies was also fought near my kin’s halls after Smaug’s death. Surely you must know of these events, being the well-educated Gondorian you must be.”

 

“Yes, yes...” Zerith began, her heart aflutter. _That was Smaug?_ “I suppose I never connected the dots because I was too overwhelmed in the scene.”

 

“Yes, I understand, lass.” He nodded. “As for the other visions, I cannot speak of them. Wizards; an elven lord; a strange city; the temple; Satherra; Hassun. It is not my place to wonder, though I can guess at how you feel about the latter vision. Did you learn something about your dragon predicament from these visions?”

 

“All throughout my time in the Withered Heath, I felt as though a choice was laid out for me to decide on. The direction I ran, which house I entered. The visions wanted me to see _something_ , but gave me the chance to choose _how_ I would see it. When Hassun appeared through the mists, this became clear.”

 

“How, Zerith?” Mhafi asked her with a tilt of his head. “What was it about seeing him?”

 

“He wanted to show me something,” She began, her skin crawling as she longed to dash herself into the fire and be nothing but ashes. “He asked me if that was what I wanted, and outstretched his hand towards me. I tried to reach it, but every step I took made it more difficult. Should I have continued on or given up? And then...I heard the real Hassun’s voice calling my name. Then I knew that I never really had a choice at all,” Zerith admitted, wiping at her teary eyes.

 

“Dear Zerith, we all have a choice,” Mhafi replied warmly, resting his free hand upon her shoulder while continuing to cradle her much smaller hand in his own. “Some may not be as simple as, ‘Should I drink this dwarf’s swill or a fine elven wine?’, but they all have the same principle: what do you feel in your heart?”

 

“He wanted me to come with him, Mhafi,” She said in a broken voice, tears slipping freely down her freckled cheeks. “Somewhere without dragons and orcs, or any hardship. He wanted to...free me. But I couldn’t let him die, Mhafi! I just couldn’t! No matter what my damn heart told me,” She sobbed, slipping her hand from his grasp to cry into her hands.

 

“I am sure your heart told you to save him, lass.” Mhafi rubbed her shoulder to try and console her.

 

“Yet I never truly had a choice at all, did I?” Her voice soured, and she lowered her hands to look him in the eye. “He died anyway.” His hand paused on her shoulder, and his face twitched and froze.

 

“No, Hassun is still fighting for his life, though he may soon lose the battle. He is lucky to have you, but if I may say so, he is a greater fool than even my second cousin twice-removed. And by Durin, he’s a fool!”

 

Mhafi continued to talk about his cousin (second cousin, mind you, Zerith, and twice-removed!) but his words muddied until she could no longer hear them over the pounding of her heart.

 

_He’s alive?_

 

“...so, when we finally cleaned up around the forge, we heard a great wailing from behind the bellows. We run over to find my cousin wearing great aunt Thukas’ wedding gown, stuck head-first into one of the steam pipes! So, we laugh a while of course, and then -- Zerith, are you alright?” Mhafi shook himself out of his stupor, and she finally focused her attention back to him instead of the pit at the bottom of her stomach.

 

“Take me to him,” She demanded.

 

“Oh, dear Zerith,” His voice became sickly sweet, and she felt annoyance rising despite her efforts to remain calm. “I don’t think that is a good idea until you have talked with the Clan-Mother and the Chieftain, as well as the other leaders here. I doubt they would like it if you crept up on the Chieftain’s son while he’s down. People would put two and two together and think--”

 

“I did not do anything to him,” she interrupted, “but I understand your point. Tell me what I can do to save him.” Zerith took a deep breath, willing any further tears away. She only earned a chuckle from Mhafi, though it did not sound as vigorous as it usually did.

 

“I wish I could tell you. I suppose the only thing is if you have some magic up your sleeves. Never heard of a dragon healing anything, though. Perhaps you have an Istari in your pocket?” He continued to jest.

 

Something clicked.

 

_Magic?_

 

Her gaze drifted down to her pack, and she threw the fur blankets off of her body, slipping far too quickly off of her bed. Her body heavily protested with further aches and pains, and her battered legs threatened to give out beneath her, but she ignored it. Zerith kneeled beside her pack, beginning to rummage through her belongings.

 

“Did they take any of my things while I was asleep?” Zerith asked Mhafi, her back turned.

 

“Just your weapons. Does this mean...you do have an Istari in your pocket?”

 

Zerith ignored him, continuing to dig until her hands touched a familiar smoothness. She retrieved it from the confines of her bag and raised it to shine it in the light. A thousand colors danced upon the leather of the tent’s walls.

 

“Will this do?” Zerith asked, turning to hold the item in the light. Mhafi’s eyebrows rose to his forehead, and he nearly fell backwards.

 

_Do you presume to give away our treasure so quickly?_ Gostir hissed in displeasure.

 

_When I touched your egg-shard, all I received was visions. You pick them apart all you like, but this is nothing more than a large, smooth chunk of marbled minerals. What use does a fully-grown dragon have for its swaddling?_ Zerith retorted with equal venom.

 

_It is the only thing_ we _have,_ He insisted as she continued to tilt the egg-shard in the light. _Would you truly give up everything for one man?_

_He gave up everything for me,_ she replied. _And we still have the prophecy-stone to find._

_Be very careful, mortal_. Gostir warned. _If you believe you are saving an entire people by sacrificing for one man, you are mistaken._

_Then why should I sacrifice any more for you?_ She asked him.

 

_Everything you have done has been for us,_ Gostir insisted, but she did not believe him.

 

_If that is the case, then why did you insist on reducing my ‘sacrifice’ to nothing?_ Zerith smiled at Mhafi’s delight as he watched the shard gleam, but she was roaring on the inside.

 

_I cannot lose you, Zerith,_ Gostir admitted, attempting as much of a sigh of regret as could be expected of a dragon. _Neither can Hassun, I suppose. Fine, then. Give up the shard to help that boy. But once your hand licks at the flames, do not be surprised at how quickly it can burn._

“Is that...what I think it is, Zerith?” Mhafi asked, a smile beginning to blossom upon his face.

 

“Gostir’s egg-shard,” Zerith confirmed, her mouth twitching. “Dragons are magical beings, so perhaps this could serve some purpose. Give this to the Clan-Mother, Mhafi. Tell her to use it however possible to heal Hassun. And tell the Chieftain I will meet with him in a few moments’ time.”

 

“Zerith, are you certain about this? You would give up such a thing of value and importance in your life? There must be more you can learn from it!” Mhafi argued, his eyebrows knitted.

 

“I will not let Hassun die because of me, nor will I allow him to waste his life on trying to accomplish a mission so dear to him that it pulled him away from the battlefield. Do as I have said, if you truly care for me, my friend. I will speak no more,” Zerith answered, the finality of her words setting a somberness upon her heart. She looked away from the dwarf, knowing that she should not test her will and conviction any longer.

 

Mhafi was still upon her bed for a moment, before she heard the bed creak with the shifting of his weight. His boots hit the rug next to her bed, and at last the weight of the egg-shard was relieved from her hands. She would never look upon its colors again. Zerith believed, however, that its power and radiance would shine within Hassun if it was truly able to be used to save his life.

 

“By your will,” The dwarf replied and walked away to fulfill the task she had asked of him. He left her with only the sound of leather flapping against itself to mark his departure.

 

Zerith looked up towards the guards, still steadfast in their stances.

 

“Leave me for a moment, please. I would like to get dressed to present myself to the chieftain. Stand outside if you must.” She asked them, doubting they would do as she requested. The two Tarakona men looked back at each other, before hesitantly turning and leaving the tent. They still kept guard of her, however, as she heard the stomp of their boots just outside the tent’s entrance.

 

After a moment had passed, Zerith sent a silent prayer to the Valar to not be disturbed and began to raise her fur shirt above her head. Her body protested her actions, upper arms aching with each muscle movement. She tried her best to not open any of the wounds wrapped in bandages near her shoulder and midsection. After her shirt was free, she inspected the bandages, glad to see no blood had blossomed upon them. They still throbbed with a dull pain, but Zerith rummaged through her pack, finding a loose leather tunic from long ago that was far cleaner than the sweat-stained fur garment. She slipped it over her head with some difficulty, pulling the sleeves down until the leather ended at her wrists.

 

She found some old pants and socks too, changing into them with greater ease than the top. Zerith was glad to see that someone had cleaned her clothes, even though there was a great possibility they would soon be stained with her blood. Her boots stood in the corner too, hardly recognizable compared to the muddy and blood-soaked boots she had returned to the encampment in. Her fur parka that Eska had given her, alongside her armor and weapons were nowhere to be found, but she did find a bulky fur coat, donning it and tying its leather belt around her waist before pulling a comb from her bag and brushing her black hair until its wavy tresses shone in the firelight.

 

_Why am I even wasting time with this?_ Zerith wondered, but she knew the answer. _For my own sanity, of course, and ‘last rites’._

 

She left the tent without a second glance, feeling as though she were walking on the clouds. As expected, the two guards stood on either side of the tent flap, waiting in silence. She looked around and saw only the clear blue sky, the shimmering remnants of the battered ice-wall hugging the camp, and hundreds of tents of all shapes and sizes around her. Zerith did not recognize any of them except for the Great Tent directly in front of her, glowing even in the daytime.

 

Tarakona men, women, and children, alongside the members of the other clans that still remained flickered around and about the camp. Some rushed to and fro carrying heavy satchels spilling with herbs. Others carried buckets of water, or led along horses carrying blocks of ice. One thing was common between all of the people, however; they all flashed Zerith a look of enmity as they passed her.

 

Zerith ignored them as best she could as she began to walk the path around the Great Tent’s sides and towards the stables where the tent’s entrance was. To her surprise, the guards followed alongside her, matching their pace with her own.

 

_I cannot even be trusted to walk to my own trial which will most likely lead to my death?_

People went out of their ways to avoid walking too close to her. Even if they had to snake around tents, they seemed to think it better than to get within a few feet of her. Though she felt their scorn slicing at her own personal armor, she enjoyed the fresh air despite the threatening presence of the two guards at her side.

 

Old women stopped knitting and sewing once they saw her. Conversations paused as soon as Zerith was spotted. Children ceased their playing and tussling. Warriors halted their early afternoon sparring sessions.

 

She understood their pointed hatred and fear towards her. Zerith truly did. But had she not also been part of the reason they were alive, in some way? Had her fire not burned countless foes? Her only answer was that she would find out upon speaking to Chieftain Massak, and only then would she be able to learn about her overall impact on their success. To her, however, it seemed a near Pyrrhic victory. In the quiet of her path she was able to pick up the sound of wailing men carried on the wind. How many men had died or been seriously wounded? Far too many, she knew.

 

Zerith would not hang her head low. She had nothing to be ashamed of, in her eyes. But she was pained at the thought of just how poorly the Tarakona viewed her.

 

_A strange woman comes from lands far to the south to aid our desperate people,_ Zerith imagined they might have told themselves. _The chieftain’s son is the one who brought her, and she was the only one he found. Their journey was a long and isolated one. Then, during the battle, the woman conjures the imagine of a long-dead outcast and traitor of our people. Satherra and Gostir alike seemed to return on the battlefield as she burned the orcs. After the smoke clears, she is gone and so is the chieftain’s son. It is only after our grave victory that the two return on the brink of death._

 

Who could Zerith truly hope to be for the Tarakona, other than an outsider? She entered their lands as an outsider -- and to them, an enemy in disguise -- and ‘proved’ her treachery. The lives she might have saved did not matter. After all, dragons scheme to create powerful, opaque ruses. A few lives saved may have only been a cloak to conceal the true danger.

 

Zerith rounded the camp, the encampment’s entrance crowded with people to her left as many workers repaired parts of the ice-wall which had cracked or been toppled in the fighting. For once, they did not pay her any mind, too absorbed in their labor.

 

She rounded the corner to where the stables stood across from the Great Tent’s entrance. Her eyes searched for a while until she spotted her beloved horse in his stall, and Eska at his side brushing his flank. Zerith stopped in her tracks for a moment, wondering if she should dare brave Eska’s temper. But she did not know how much time she had. She had to say her goodbyes to Applegrabber, the only truly steadfast friend she had throughout her journey.

 

As she approached, the other men and women tending to the horses looked up at the sound of her boots and briskly fled the stables. Eska, however, did not move. Her fair face was flushed in anger.

 

Applegrabber raised his head and whinnied at the sight of his master. Zerith longed to rush towards him, but the proximity of the Tarakona guards alongside her chilled her bones. Instead, she walked as calmly as possible towards him, taking his velvety-soft nose into her hands and stroking his neck.

 

“I am so glad to see you again, my friend,” Zerith beamed as her horse’s dark intelligent gaze filled her with a warm feeling. _Valar, I shall never let them take this away from me._ She hesitantly turned her gaze towards Eska, who was busying herself with cleaning the horse.

 

“I have nothing to say to you, Zerith, if you came here to speak with me.” Eska proclaimed coldly, her usually warm gaze hardening into ice.

 

“I am happy to see you are safe, but I knew you would not wish to speak.” Zerith replied slowly, minding her words and tone. “I appreciate you taking good care of my horse throughout everything. He is my last friend in life, it seems.” _Mhafi, too, of course. But he is a dwarf, and dwarves and dragons do not mix._

 

“Yes,” Eska said through her teeth. “I can see that.” Zerith did not dare to look up at the woman again.

 

“Applegrabber is a fine mount. Should I die, he is yours if you want him.” Zerith said, her horse’s ears flicking at her words as though he sensed her approaching doom.

 

Eska did not respond, and Zerith simply sighed before reluctantly turning away from her horse and towards the Great Tent. She could not allow herself to prepare, for she knew only anxiety would fester within her. And how could she truly prepare anyways?

 

The guards trailing behind her, she lifted up the tent flap, pushed back by the intense wave of heat upon her entering.

 

The Great Tent was not at all like she remembered. It was barren except for the wooden support beams of the leather roof and a raised stone platform at the back of the tent, where the leaders stood, alongside several armed clansmen. She slowly approached, sloughing off the weight of their piercing gazes, and stopped a few feet away from where the leaders stood above her. The guards left her side and joined with their kinsmen.

 

“We were hoping you would awaken before the daylight disappears,” Chieftain Massak began, even-toned.

 

“Forgive me,” She said softly. “How long was I asleep?”

 

“A few days, but it matters not.” He replied. “You are here just as you were. Nothing has changed about you since before the battle, has it?” Some of the other leaders who did not seem to speak the Common Tongue were constantly chatting to themselves, daring a glance at her every so often.

 

“Many things have changed. Perhaps not what you wish.” Zerith said, feeling a shakiness enter her body.

 

“Tell us, then. Who are you, truly? What has become of you?” The chattering stopped, and the men grew silent as they watched in anticipation of her words.

 

She took a deep breath before telling them everything. Her life in Minas Tirith, fleeing the city and her crime, being taken in by the Istari wizard, Hassun and her travels to the North, as well as the battle and the Withered Heath and her visions. Her throat felt raw when she was finished.

 

Zerith realized that she could not win her life by showing them the strength of a dragon. _If I they see the dragon, they will do what they know and slay it._ Instead, she knew she had to present to Gondorian, the same woman who had once argued with her tutor about the exact meaning of words in every single sentence of every single book.

 

“You have had a troubled life, Zerith.” Yrjö began in the kindest voice he could muster. “We will not deny you that. But why, after all we have seen of you, believe you to be harmless? You know of how much Satherra harmed the Tarakona. I do not mean to put words into the Chieftain’s mouth, but one can easily put two and two together...”

 

“I came to the North to seek answers about myself,” Zerith began, choosing her words carefully. “There were many times I could have made a move to jeopardize your people. If I wanted to, I could have tried to burn you all when I first arrived. I could have used my dragon-fire on your people instead of your enemies during the battle. I could have killed Hassun or left him to die. I did none of these things. Instead, I have done what I can to help your people. I nearly died, yet I stand here. I brought back Hassun so that he might live. And I still seek to do what I can to help you, even though I may be killed by your hands.”

 

“Then you deny playing a part in the Chieftain’s son’s injuries?” Yrjö asked, and she willed her growing fire to be extinguished.

 

“I would never harm him. He has been a friend to me, and saved my life more than once. He was delirious from pain and demanded that I take him away from the Tarakona’s lands but I refused, instead taking him back so that he could receive care. Why would I do so if I had motives to harm the North’s people?”

 

“Surely you must know the rumors about you. You were the only person Hassun recruited to help us. Bree to these lands is a long way for a man and a woman to be alone, Zerith. And the way of destruction does not always have to be through dragon-fire.” Yrjö countered, his lips beginning to upturn slightly.

 

“You insult my honor and the Chieftain’s honor. Hassun stands for his people, first and foremost.” Zerith replied, her hands curling into fists.

 

“If that is the case, then why did he abandon the battlefield, endanger himself and others, and ride to find you?”

 

“He is my friend, nothing more. He wanted to prevent me from letting the Tarakona know who I was. After it was too late, however, I believe he must have wanted to make sure I was alright.” Zerith sucked in a breath.

 

“Zerith,” Chieftain Massak began, his voice far softer than his Lossoth counterpart, “why did you choose to go to the Withered Heath in the middle of battle?”

 

“Gostir believed we could find a piece of the past there that would help us understand why his soul was placed in my body. During the battle, I was separated from your son and the mercenaries. Wounded, disarmed, and on the brink of death, Gostir surged his strength into me and allowed me to fight on and use my dragon-breath. He knew he could not relinquish control of me then, however, for I would have died anyways, so he took me to the Heath.”

 

“He ‘took’ you?” Yrjö pondered with a tilt of his head, the glittering green snake eyes causing her to feel faint.

 

“He took control of my body to prevent me from dying. Gostir believed that forcing me to flee was the only way I could live,” Zerith began, anxiety fluttering in her stomach. “He saved me from being slaughtered by the orcs due to my exhaustion and isolation. Even after burning the orcs, I was spent. Had he left me then, I would have collapsed.”

 

“So, what you mean to say is that he is able to completely control you on a whim?” Yrjö rested his chin on his palm as he watched her with narrowed eyes.

 

_Valar, I do not like where this is going._

 

“That is not completely true,” She shook her head. “Standing here, he can do little except argue with me inside my head. In times of desperation, however, he has saved my life. You must understand that Gostir needs me just as much as I need him. We both want freedom, and answers.”

 

“His freedom could be gained by controlling you.” The Chieftain responded.

 

“He wants to _fly_.” Zerith stated in response. “I do not have wings. He wants his own body back, and nothing to do with mankind.”

 

“Yet dragons are creatures of evil, are they not? We know they serve the Dark Lord’s needs, and we also know that Gostir greatly harmed the Tarakona during Satherra’s time.” Yrjö replied.

 

“I know little about the comprehensive history of the Chieftain’s people during Satherra’s lifetime, but what I have heard and seen from Gostir and my dreams tells me that Gostir did little to intentionally harm the Tarakona. True, he was once a servant of evil, but he grew fond of the Tarakona and of mortals. He taught Satherra the principles of wisdom. Unfortunately, not even he could shield her from the looming darkness. I have always believed that what we are born into does not decide who we must be. Do you disagree?” She asked boldly, fidgeting with the tie around her waist.

 

“I do not disagree, but dragons are not like the Free Peoples. They serve a singular purpose: to destroy by any means necessary.” The Lossoth’s voice rose, clearly growing tired of the debate.

 

“Should they play the long game as you suspect, hampering their enemy’s plans with subterfuge? Gostir could have easily incinerated the Tarakona people when he first found them. It would have taken little time or energy from him. But he did not, and instead taught many of the Tarakona about himself and the world. Why would he have done that?”

 

“Zerith,” Chieftain Massak interrupted coolly, “I am not ungrateful for your service during the battle, nor do I believe you to be a malicious woman. But you must understand that I did not seek to speak with you to judge you for myself only. I work for the good of my people, and the North. Recently, my people have faced hardship. Our original camp was destroyed by a rival clan within a matter of hours. Many lives were lost. Then, almost half of the North pledges to work for the Dark Lord and rule, forcing us into a war amongst ourselves. Finally, an old threat emerges from a long-dead enemy. What should I think to do? At what point must I raise the blade, when I have so often kept it sheathed?”

 

“I can’t answer that for you, Chieftain.” She admitted, her shoulders lowering. “I can only cite what I have accomplished before you as a showing of my goodwill. I am not Satherra. I am just a young Gondorian doing what she can to aid the Free Peoples.”

 

One of the lesser chieftains halted in his whispering and turned to face her, pointing a bony finger out.

 

“Dragons, Gostir, Satherra; bad. This woman? Bad.” He said in broken Westron. The other leaders began to fervently nod their heads, except for Massak and Yrjö, who spared the leaders and each other a glance that made Zerith’s hopes fall.

 

“I am surprised to say that I agree with the other leaders, Massak. Everything about her points to nothing good. Can your people take the risk of letting her go? Look what happened to your son!” Yrjö cried.

 

“Not all is what it seems,” A voice behind her proclaimed. The leaders fixated their gaze upon the figure, and Zerith slowly turned her head towards the sound.

 

Clan-Mother Purnaq approached feebly, yet her stare was as strong as steel. She was garbed in a hooded fur robe, her long greyed hair spilling out of the sides of her hood. Her pale blue eyes focused on Zerith.

 

“Clan-Mother?” Chieftain Massak asked, his head shaking in surprise.

 

“Yes, Massak, I am still alive as you can see. The injured and the dead have been well-tended to. I have come to listen to this nonsense you southerners call a ‘trial’,” Clan-Mother Purnaq began as she gestured towards Zerith, “and to deliver good news. Your son will live.”

Zerith’s heart leapt out of her chest, sighing in relief. She felt tears stinging her eyes, but blinked them away and tried to maintain her composure before the leaders.

 

“Thank you, Clan-Mother.” Chieftain Massak replied with a voice near to breaking, his wide eyes shining.

 

“You should be thanking this woman, too.” The Clan-Mother responded loudly. Zerith expected her to say more, but she did not, standing to the side at an equal distance between the leaders and Zerith, watching the shocked look bloom on Zerith’s face with a small smirk of her own.

 

“Truly?” Yrjö exclaimed in a high tone. The tent fell silent as the leaders expected an explanation.

 

“As you know, I took Hassun back to the Tarakona camp as fast as I could. And I gave the Clan-Mother a shard of Gostir’s egg from the Withered Heath in the hope that, due to the magical properties of dragons, it could find some use in saving his life.” Zerith answered in a small voice, feeling more downtrodden even amongst praise.

 

“Without her sacrifice, Hassun would have died. I know it.” The Clan-Mother added.

 

“We still do not know if Hassun’s composure is healthy, however!” Yrjö argued, the Northerners turning their attention towards him. “He’s your son, Massak! Fit to become a chieftain, one day! You would allow the encroaching of dragon-fire and evil to go unpunished?”

 

“We saw to evil upon the battlefield,” the Chieftain responded with a growing smile, though it was strangely kind towards the Lossoth. “As for dragon-fire, all I see now is that fire does not only have to burn. It can also heal.” The whispering of the leaders began again, and this time, Yrjö’s voice joined in harshly.

 

“Zerith, though we may always look upon you with wariness, we shall call you a friend henceforth. We, greater than many people, know the dangers of dragons, but we also know the value of those who freely aid us. This ‘trial’ of sorts has ended. I would like to see my son.” The Chieftain said warmly, and though his posture and expression remained stony and nearly unreadable, Zerith knew the warmth he held in his heart. She felt it too, and no longer felt the biting chill of the North, but its open, scorching embrace. He left the stone platform as well as the Great Tent, the other leaders slowly and hesitantly trailing after him.

 

An idea popped into Zerith’s mind, and she smiled at the thought. The Clan-Mother, ever watchful, raised her eyebrows in question.

 

“I think you are forgetting something, Chieftain Yrjö.” Zerith called out. She heard the shuffling of boots as the Lossoth halted, and then a heavy sigh.

 

“My sense of dignity?” Yrjö asked, his tone sounding like he had transformed into a bedraggled rat that had been soaked in a rainstorm and hung to dry from his tail.

 

“A reward was promised to each of the mercenaries for their participation in battle. In fact, Chieftain Massak himself said that to us on our first day here. Unfortunately, many of the brave men set to receive these rewards have perished. I, however, live. I believe you have a small token which I would love more than any other.” She turned to him as he stopped to face her, his face growing red.

 

“And what would that be?” He asked, spitting out every word through clenched teeth.

 

“The ring upon your neck,” Zerith replied, staring into the serpents’ green eyes.

 

“As expected from a Gondorian. Fine, it is yours, for your _service_.”  Yrjö tore the chain which bore the ring from his neck, before almost throwing it into her outstretched hand. She held it in firelight and the silver serpents seemed to dance as Yrjö left the tent, leaving her alone with the Clan-Mother. In a private time, she would sew the ring into the inner lining of her breast band so that it could not be stolen from her. Its importance radiated through the hand it sat upon.

 

“You are eager to tempt fate again.” The Clan-Mother said, watching her beneath the shadow of her hood. Zerith turned to her with a small smile.

 

“It is my nature, whether I like it or not.” Zerith said cheerfully.

 

“You tempt others’ fates as well,” Was the response of the Clan-Mother, clasping her hands in front of her.

 

“I don’t mean to,” Zerith’s smile faded.

 

“I know, child,” Purnaq began, “and for that I see much of Satherra in you, even though you deny your connection. Before she betrayed my people, she was a beloved leader and guide. Satherra originally studied under the dragon’s tutelage to learn about the forces of Evil so that she could better defend the Tarakona. We were at war at the time, and even the greatest of leaders can suffer during hardship. Dragon-wise as she was, Satherra could never accept loss. Not in her training as a warrior, not in arguments, and not when innocent people died. Yet in her attempt to combat this, we fell even further into despair, and she lost the greatest of all things: her self-worth. Her death was tragic and sorrow never seems to stay settled. From then on, my people were taught to be wary of any sign of her return. The Clan-Mothers, specifically, were taught of her ways and her hubris. Yet, now, the current Clan-Mother has gone against the teachings.” She smiled grimly.

 

“Why did you help me?” Zerith asked in a small voice, the room beginning to cool.

 

“From the moment you set foot in our territory, I sensed a certain fire in you that could not be so easily extinguished. You were _familiar_ to me. Despite my many years as the spiritual and historical guide for the Tarakona, I did not understand it. After the battle, however, I understood. You were not who I expected, and you proved any assumptions I could have made about Gostir’s legacy to be false. You fought bravely and saved the Chieftain’s son’s life through a personal sacrifice.” Zerith’s heart began to pound in her ears as she listened to the Clan-Mother’s uplifting speech.

 

“Thank you, Clan-Mother.” Zerith said, unable to find any other words but ones of gratitude.

 

“You are welcome, Zerith. And I must thank you for all you have done for my people. The darkness in the North has been lifted for now, the forces of Evil fleeing and scattering in the wind, back to their masters. Yet I know they will return. I sense another darkness too down your road. Be wary, Zerith; all men must die one day.” Clan Mother Purnaq advised, brushing the front of her fur robe.

 

“Yes, but we are not men, are we?” Zerith asked, rubbing the ring between her fingers idly. The Clan-Mother smiled, her eyes sparkling through the darkness.

 

“No, we are not. One can never be too careful in seeking the wrath of the gods, however. Fly too far and you will fall, Zerith.” The Clan-Mother said, a silence falling between the pair for a moment before she continued. “You have listened to an old woman’s words for long enough. I suspect you will be wishing to speak with Hassun about what has transpired. He should be awake, especially if his father has gone and pestered him enough. The chieftain loves his son deeply, but often forgets the correct ways to show it.” She chuckled.

 

_I get to see him?_ Zerith shivered. _What will I say? What will_ he _say? There is much on the table between us that I am not ready to face yet._

Zerith knew, however, that she had prolonged her stored-away feelings and thoughts for too long. Hassun had nearly died. What would have happened if he had passed and left her wondering what he truly thought about her? With a respectful bow, Zerith turned and left the Great-Tent, tucking the ring into the pocket of her fur coat.

 

Outside, the sky was a pale blue, and the sun shone upon the ice-wall, still standing sturdily. Workers busied themselves with patching its cracks and building upon it further so not even the Great Tent’s peak would be visible to outsiders.

 

Mhafi stood near the stables, leaning upon a wooden beam and whistling as he draped an arm over the base of Applegrabber’s neck. The horse did not seem to mind the dwarf’s attention. His ears pricked and he looked up from his hay to spot Zerith, who approached with bouncing steps.

“Ah, you return! I take it this means good news, then?” Mhafi exclaimed, his arms outstretched towards the sky as he beamed at her approach.

 

“Yes, and the egg-shard was enough to save Hassun’s life. I am far more grateful for his second chance than mine,” She said with a chuckle, but Mhafi frowned.

 

“Do not even jest about that, Zerith!” Mhafi shouted, and busy workers around her lifted their heads to flash the dwarf a strange look. “I was worried about you. You work your way into situations that one day will be inescapable!”

 

“Yes, I know. Believe me,” She tried to appease the dwarf, yet he still eyed her with suspicion. “I would like to go see Hassun, if you would show me where his tent lies. The Chieftain went to see him upon news that he would live.”

 

The dwarf’s face relaxed into a face permanently sculpted into a laugh. “You should have seen the other chieftains! Left the Great Tent as though they had found out there would be no ale tonight for dinner. As sad as a situation that would be, I only found humor! What did you do to provoke such melancholy in the North?”

 

“It was not me this time, I swear.” Zerith began, though her growing grin would have betrayed her had she not been truthful. “The Clan-Mother spoke on my behalf, and she was the reason the Chieftain decided I was not to be harmed. Much to the dismay of the others. You should have been there, Mhafi.”

 

“You will have to tell me all about it, but for now you should see the Chieftain’s son. I know he must be dying -- begging your pardon -- to see you,” Mhafi nodded, beginning to walk boisterously towards his tent. Zerith pressed her face into the side of Applegrabber’s neck, glad at the promise of many more years with her beloved horse.

 

“Have you seen Eska anywhere?” Zerith asked as she joined Mhafi’s side.

 

“Who, the blonde woman at the stables? Yes, in fact. She went this way not too long ago.” Mhafi responded, strolling along past the workers and soldiers that looked down upon the dwarf with a curiosity.

 

_Valar, she is the last person I should be running into now, except perhaps Yrjö._ Zerith darkened. She felt her midsection and tired legs begin to ache, and hoped she would last long enough to do what needed to be done. She needed rest, but the pounding of her heart told her that Hassun could not wait any longer.

 

“You seem worried about something,” Mhafi said quietly as they walked together. _Is it that obvious?_

 

“Valar only knows what he must think of me.” Zerith replied candidly with a deep sigh.

 

“I am sure he will be glad to see you are alive at the very least. After all, he did try and risk his life to save you.”

 

“And he almost died in my stead!” She hissed lowly, glad to see that none of the Tarakona were paying attention to her any longer as a light snow began to fall.

 

“He will be even gladder since you were the one to _save_ him. Perhaps his pride will be a bit wounded, but he is your friend.” Mhafi said, the sun shining on the top of his head despite the snowfall.

 

“He was foolish. Willing to give his people’s future up for me.” She shook her head, staring down at the ground.

 

“Foolish, yes, but do you not guess that there may be more to it than blind foolishness?” He asked slowly, and she barely picked up his words in the hum of hammering and the sounds of the wounded crying out as they reached open-flapped tents that were makeshift healing houses.

 

Zerith did not respond -- could not respond -- to the _accusation_ hovering in the air between them.

 

“Awful, isn’t it?” She did not understand what he meant until he gestured towards the tents where the wounded and dying lay, healers and wise women frantically flitting back and forth. “We drove back the orcs and the enemy tribes, but not without pitting ourselves against them to a stalemate, and a near defeat. Many people died that day, Zerith. Heroes.” He stopped so that she was able to view a pile of the slain covered in sheets of grey cloth, soon to be ignited in flame. “Your fire may have greatly aided us, but there were so many more fronts which turned the tide. Never forget that, Zerith. There was so much more.” Mhafi said gravely, his eyes sparkling in the lingering daylight of the afternoon.

 

“There will be many more who still die. And many more battles to be fought.” She responded, vocal chords grinding against each other.

 

“Come,” He said with an outstretched arm pointed to a larger, closed tent in the midst of the healers’ courses, on the opposite side of the Great Tent’s entrance and the entrance to the encampment. With every step closer, Zerith felt weighted in place, much like she had when she had been trying to reach Hassun in her vision. This time, however, she did not feel frozen. She was warm and light, yet quickly sinking.

 

Two guards stood on each side of the tent’s flap, accompanied by several other guards who closely patrolled the area. Zerith was about to approach further but Mhafi grabbed her hand and shushed her before she could protest, a finger to his lips.

 

“Wait,” he whispered. “The Chieftain is still in there. Listen.”

 

She heard three people talking, though their words were too muffled by the tent’s leather and fur coverings to be able to be made out. They seemed calm, though a shiver ran down her spine as they continued to speak.

 

Eventually, the noise ceased, and the Chieftain appeared from the tent’s innards, accompanied by his two personal guards, their dark eyes set on Zerith immediately. Chieftain Massak locked his gaze on her, flashing only the barest of smiles as he approached her.

 

“Come to see the worth of what you have done?” He asked her, but she could only focus on the two guards at his side.

 

“I wanted to see if Hassun was alright,” She managed to stutter out, glad that Mhafi was still at her side.

 

“He is awake and well for now. Before the Clan-Mother saw to him with your egg-shard, he was feverish and on the brink of death. The shard crumbled in her hands, turning to dust as she placed a cloth upon his forehead and bandaged his wounds.” The Chieftain replied. “Though my people may never trust you, we will not forget what you have done. You have the thanks of the Tarakona’s chieftain, as well as from a father.”

 

_The shard is gone...but Hassun remains,_ Zerith thought, a solemn feeling sinking into her bones. _But if I had not given up the shard, he would have died. How can I ever judge any of my decisions as ‘worthy’?_

Chieftain Massak walked away, his guards trailing, as she lost herself in her thoughts. It was only the pull of Mhafi’s hand on her arm that she finally shook herself out of her stupor.

 

“Go on, lass. He may not be awake for much longer.”

 

She looked down at him, tracing the pattern of the tattoo upon the crown of his forehead. Zerith nodded before slowly turning back towards the tent that seemed to be awaiting her, its flap fluttering softly in the wind.

 

“Go on,” Mhafi said again, and she did.

 

Zerith pulled the tent flap up just enough so that she could duck her head in, her neck aching at the movement. As she let it drop behind her, a wave of heat radiated around her. Her eyes wanted to _focus_ on one thing, but she allowed them to roam over the tent’s expanse. It was far larger than her own had been, though adorned with similar furniture. One large bed draped in furs, a stool which had been pushed next to the bed, a mannequin adorned in what seemed to bear ceremonial armor instead of tattered and torn furs. A fire had been set about in the middle, covered in rounded grey stones that were close to glowing in the heat.

 

“What are _you_ doing here?” A voice sneered to her left, causing her to jump. She looked over to see Eska’s pinched face looking up at her from her crouching position next to stacked piles of clothing, bandages, and other goods. Her blonde hair was pulled tight behind her head, no longer having the same warmth and radiance that it once did.

 

“I could ask you the same question,” Zerith replied with far less venom, unwilling to be led into a verbal trap.

 

“Delivering clean clothes and supplies. I asked you first.” Eska hissed, rising to meet Zerith’s height.

“I wanted to see how Hassun was doing,” Zerith answered matter-of-factly. Eska’s frown cut at her jaw.

 

“Odd,” Eska began, mocking confusion. “I would have thought that the Chieftain would have had you killed by now. Why would he even allow you near his son, who you nearly killed yourself? Why should I?” The flames danced in the firepit at her scorching words.

 

“I saved his life,” Zerith replied, in a much quieter level than Eska’s boom. She was tired, and aching, and only sought to right her wrongs before the rawness of pain left her and she was back to feeling stony cold.

 

“Eska, that is enough,” Hassun said in a sleep-drunken voice as the two women whipped their heads towards the sound of his voice. Zerith would have begun to weep, then, had she not been so tired; dark, puffy circles cradled his deep eyes, which were set above countless tiny cuts and bruises. He pulled himself to a sitting position in his bed with a wince, the clean white shirt hanging onto his frame peeking from under the furs.

 

“She betrayed you, Hassun.” Eska said, her voice peaking as she tried to reason with him.

 

“Leave us,” Hassun replied, resting his hands upon his blanketed knees. Eska stood still, shock frozen onto her face. A minute passed before she begrudgingly bowed and left the tent, the coldness of the North blowing Zerith’s hair at her departure. Zerith, however, did not move. She stood across from the fire and stared at Hassun until he offered her a small, exhausted smile. Then, she slowly crept over to the stool, sitting down slowly as though he were a deer at her strung arrow’s end. The wound at her stomach burned as she moved, pain throbbing even as she stilled in the chair, waiting for him to say something. She guessed that he, too, was waiting for her response. They looked at each other for a while, the forces of their nature pushing and pulling against one another in silence. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak, and her gaze shifted to the fire.

 

“Much has occurred since we last saw one another.” Hassun said, his right hand shifting from his knee to move closer to her.

 

“It has,” She agreed, not lifting her gaze.

 

“Zerith,” He _begged_ , and she treacherously looked up at his pained expression.

 

“Don’t.”

 

“Why?” He asked with a choked whisper. “First the battle and your fire. Then you ran away, and I after you. You found what you had come to my people’s lands for, but gave it away to save me. And you could not even indulge my last wish.”

 

“Your last wish was foolish,” She whispered back. “You wanted to die. I wanted you to live. Which one of us was right?”

 

“It is not about being _right_ , Zerith.” He shook his head, soft brown eyes shining in the firelight. “As you can see, I am very much alive. But I need to know, Zerith. No one would talk to me about what happened. Not my father, not the Clan-Mother. When I flickered in and out of consciousness, I heard whisperings about everything. I don’t know what to believe, but I know I would believe you if you would tell me.”

 

“Fine, then.” She agreed, stiffening in her seat. “I was separated during the battle. Trapped, disarmed, and injured. I thought I was going to die, and so did Gostir. He saved me. Then he forced me to go to the Withered Heath, knowing that if I would have died during the battle, everything would be for naught. I found his egg-shard, and received visions from it. Then, you came. I took you back to the camp before I passed out from my injuries. When I awoke, I gave the egg-shard to the Clan-Mother in the slim hope that it could help you. Then I argued for my life before your father and the other leaders.”

 

“Your life?” His eyebrows raised as he shifted his body painfully towards her. “We won the battle in part due to you, and yet my father meant to kill you?”

 

“He did not seem eager, but the others did.”

 

“Exactly what I would have guessed,” Hassun grumbled with a shaking of his head.

 

“The Clan-Mother is the reason I am alive, truly.” Zerith spoke up. “She came and told them what I had done for you. It was enough,”

 

“Barely enough for them, but too much for me.” Hassun ran a hand through his dark hair. “I made a promise to you, and you made me break it.”

 

“With good reason,” She hissed through her teeth.

 

“Zerith, _please._ ” He said, his eyebrows furrowing as his eyes searched her face. “I made a promise to protect you and to make sure your identity would not be discovered in the North. I failed on both accounts, it seems.”

 

“You did,” She smiled brightly at the mention of his supposed failure, “but if you had not come to find me, then _I_ would not have had a reason to go back to the Tarakona camp, whose healers saved both our lives! So, in an indirect way, you did help me. But you nearly broke my heart by doing so.”

 

Hassun began to laugh, his eyes shutting for a moment as the pain washed away. It was short-lived, however, for he soon clutched his side, the laughter slowly fading.

 

“You must always have the upper hand against me, don’t you?” He asked, beaming at her.

 

“Always, no matter what.” She said, betraying herself to smile in turn.

 

Soon, the smiles faded. He was on the verge of saying something else, something _deeper_ and far more serious, but the hesitation bubbled on his face.

 

“Zerith,” Hassun began, taking a deep breath. “Before the battle, when we were in the stables together, there was something I should have told you.”

 

“Please, Hassun. Let’s just be glad that we are both alive and let things stay in the past.” Her words rushed over one another.

 

“ _No,_ Zerith.” He almost shouted at her, and her mouth clamped shut at his tone. “Something has always been hovering between us. That ‘something’ has carried me through our travels, and the battle. It drove me to cut down every orc in my path to find you. It pushed me through the pain, and away from any second thoughts.

 

When I found you in the Heath, I felt like the happiest man in the world. I knew I was going to die. But all I wanted was to see you safe, one last time. My idea of running away was foolish, I know. I would not have made it to somewhere safe. It didn’t matter to me, though. As long as I was with you, I would have died happily.

 

You can call me a fool all you want. It doesn’t change how I feel. When I first met you in Bree, I had no clue what kind of trouble I was getting myself into. Then I feared you, after finding out what you truly were. Part of me thought I should have killed you, knowing who you are. I couldn’t do it, however. Over time, I saw past everything. I no longer saw the fire, or the dragon, but only _you._ ”

 

“Please,” Zerith began, tears streaming down her face. “I cannot bear to hear any more.”

 

He leaned closer to her, his head hovering above her own which dipped down. His hand cradled her cheek with a feather-light touch, gently tracing her scars and wiping her tears away.

 

“Zerith, _I love you_.” He said.

 

She shook her head weakly, any words of protest or argument drowned in her tears. _Valar, why does it hurt so much?_

 

“I know I shouldn’t,” He said, voice wavering, “but I do. It was never something I sought out...or longed for. And then I realized it all at once, and it was like the clearest thing in the world. Everything made sense. I would have given everything up just to stay forever at your side. And I still would.”

 

“Hassun...” Zerith whispered, her entire body shaking as his hand reached around to cradle her head, his fingers entwining into her hair. “I can’t.” She looked up at him, his jaw quivering and the warmth of his eyes shining wetly in the light.

 

“I know, I know.” He began shakily. “It’s alright. I always knew it could never happen, but when you want something so badly, you try to imagine every way you could make it work.

 

I had a dream about you while I was asleep. We were sitting together on a padded bench somewhere warm and sunny, the breeze blowing your hair. You were smiling at me, and I could not imagine a happier moment than to be with you then. But your smile soon faded, and I knew you had answered the question which had been weighing on my heart.

 

Still, I asked you, “When will you ever be able to love someone freely?”

 

You replied, “When I set sail in the sky. When my fire turns to ash, and reignites with the passion of my love. When the sweetest of wines run red with blood, and the clouds turn to silver. And when I am called ‘mother’, yet unable to bear child. Only then.”

 

I thought I was dead. Even when I awoke, however, I pondered those words. What could they mean? Nothing for _us_ , I know that. Still, the first person I asked to see was you. I did not ask how many men had died, or how the wall was, or how our food supplies were. I wanted _you_.”

 

“Hassun,” Zerith sighed with a sniffle, brushing her tears away. “I am so sorry.”

_When I set sail in the sky. When my fire turns to ash, and reignites with the passion of my heart. When the sweetest of wines run red with blood, and the clouds turn to silver. And when I am called ‘mother’, yet unable to bear child. Only then._

_What could it mean?_ Zerith wondered.

 

_More fire, and more bloodshed._ Gostir rumbled, his voice softer than he had ever been.

 

“No, it’s alright.” He laughed, shifting his body so that he could fully face her, taking her shoulders into his arms in an embrace. “You are so much more than you know,” He spoke into the hair on the top of her head, “and have so many places to go. You will go out into the world and touch each and every one of the people you meet. I know that. No one can deny that you will be loved by many, and feared by many more.” He leaned back to show her his heartbroken smile. “You will be a dragon to them, but you will always be Zerith to me.”

 

“And you’ll make your people strong, and carry the legacy of your ancestors. You will find happiness and love...without me.” She replied, the words sticking to the top of her palate.

 

“Yes,” he replied, sounding thoroughly unconvinced as his eyes shone. “There will be no need to worry about me.” He patted her shoulder lightly.

 

“I will always worry about you,” she whispered.

 

“No need, as I said.” His grin gleamed in the light. “I am surrounded by many warriors, and an ice-wall that grows greater with each passing day. Did my father tell you our people plan to stay here permanently? They have grown fond of the wall, just like you southerners, it seems!”

 

“That sounds wonderful,” Zerith returned his smile. “It will mean good trade with Erebor and the Dale-lands. And a bulwark, when your enemy is foolish enough to strike again.”

 

“Not for a while, I would guess. They will remember the dragon in the North.” Hassun reminded her with a stern, pinched expression, before it faded with her choked laughter. His hand shot to his side and he gasped breathlessly.

 

“You should rest, now. I’m not leaving tonight.” Zerith urged as she scrutinized his pained form.

 

“As should you,” He leaned back into his bed, and she stood to clear the furs from where he rested before covering him up again as he settled.

She turned to leave, not wanting to spare him another look out of fear that she would completely disregard her responsibilities and return to his side to stay there for as long as he would have her. Zerith wiped at her face, hoping her eyes would not be too reddened and puffy.

 

“Zerith,” He called her name, and she turned back. “There is another thing I had meant to tell you, possibly the thing you would care most to hear.”

 

_More than your declaration of love which nearly tore my heart to bits?_

“What is it?” She asked.

 

“I know where the prophecy-stone is,” Hassun replied.

 

-o-

 

The sky was dark and starless when she left the tent, the cold air rushing upon her warm face. The first thing she saw was Eska, faced away and sitting on the cold-packed ground a few arm-lengths away. When she heard the rustling of the tent flap, she craned her head towards the sound with wide eyes, and stood up, quickly narrowing them.

 

“I considered you to almost be a sister to me,” Eska hissed as she approached slowly. “But I know that Hassun considers you to be far more than that, so why should it matter?”

 

“I am grateful for your friendship and hospitality.” Zerith replied calmly.

 

“Had I known what you were, I would have poisoned your food. I would have speared your horse. I would have boiled you in your bath-water. You are a _snake_ , and there can be no other fate for you. But I place my loyalty to my Chieftain above myself, unlike you. Do not mistake me; that is the only reason that you still live.” The Tarakona woman spat in her face, her pallor twisting until she seemed deformed or rubbed raw against the stone.

 

“I too am grateful that you stay your hand.” Zerith said again, keeping her face as neutral as possible.

_Do you not think it wiser to simply burn this woman? She may trouble you later._ Gostir insisted.

 

_I kill her, I kill myself. I am in no state to flee, and I would not make it out of this camp alive._ She replied.

_No need to kill her then, but only to make a demonstration._

_I am the greater person,_ Zerith’s reply came with a supported tone, _and I will not expend my energy on her. It is not worth my time._

 

“I do not understand what they -- what Hassun -- sees in you.” Eska rolled her eyes.

 

“Far too much,” Zerith agreed, swiftly turning and walking away into the dark of the night, her dulled sleepy senses the only thing to guide her upon the path of loneliness.

 

-o-

 

Zerith paid the guards stationed outside her tent no mind as she entered, kicking off her boots and removing her fur coat before extinguishing her tent fire to only embers and climbing into bed.

 

_I know you must be angry with me._ Zerith called out to the depths of her mind as soon as she closed her eyes.

 

_Angry does not begin to describe it, but there is no use, is there?_ The dragon roared.

 

_I suppose not. We still have those visions, the words from Hassun’s dream, and the prophecy-stone to see to. And I know where we should go next. I will travel to Minas Tirith, to see if the business with the Unscathed and unrest in the city is over, and to learn the whereabouts of Gandalf. Now that I know that he did not truly abandon all thought of me, I feel more at peace with these past few years._

 

_The visions, perhaps, will be of some benefit. I have little hope in the prophecy-stone._ Gostir growled, still angered. His warmth prickled her insides. _Hassun’s ‘wise’ words are of no use. Love is of no meaning to a dragon._

 

_Even so, perhaps his words hint to the future? Fire turning to ash? Wine running red with blood, and flying? Something must involve you. How could it not?_

_Enough, mortal. Sleep so that we may continue on when your mortal body is rested._ He hissed, though no longer maliciously. Even with her fire out, she felt warmer than ever in her bed’s embrace and in the presence of the silver dragon.

 

_I wanted to apologize,_ Zerith continued, ignoring him. _We must work together to overcome the challenges imposed on both of our beings. We have both been selfish along this road. Though you may be a dragon, I do not believe you deserve all the hardships this world has placed upon you, Gostir. We may yet rewrite our wrongs._

_There is nothing more to be said, mortal._ The dragon rumbled. _The past stays, the future remains. We will find the truth of it together._

_Together,_ she vowed.

 

_Together,_ he swore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you thought that this chapter was sad at all in the least bit, you'll have a fun time in future chapters up until the end of this fic...just warning you.
> 
> These next few chapters are going to be incredibly difficult for me to write, due to how pivotal and different they are from what you have read so far. I'm excited for them, however. Zerith is about to go through some huge changes, some for the better and many for the worse.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are deliciously savored. <3


	14. The Departing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone <3 I know it has been so long since an update to this fic! Please know that I have been extremely busy and stressed out. So many life changes and I fell into a dark place. But Game of Thrones Season 8 inspired me for this next chapter, as I did not want to let you down like it has let me down (S8 contributed to the dark place lol). 
> 
> Speaking of GoT, I think it's important to mention that I almost completely listen to GoT's many scores while I write this fic. I love Daenerys' themes especially because they can be so epic and heart-breaking. If you're listening to music and reading this chapter, may I recommend S6's I Need You By My Side during Zerith and Hassun's conversation? Oh, and if you happen to reread 'The Withered Heath', S2's House of the Undying fits perfectly (and that scene was one of my inspirations as well). I'll try to let you know from here on out if a specific piece of music inspired the chapter :)
> 
> These next few concluding chapters are going to be big. If you've wondered about Zerith's character development, it's definitely going to ramp up as we approach the sequel to this fic.
> 
> Make sure to read the end notes to this as well :)
> 
> WARNINGS: VIOLENCE AND SLIGHT MENTION OF SEXUAL ASSAULT (just the usual)

 

Chapter 14: The Departing

 

            “Are you sure you will find what you are looking for, lass?” Mhafi asked as the sun began to rise above the bobbing of Applegrabber’s neck. The Ice-Wall gleamed many lengths behind them, still managing to catch the faint rays of light of the approaching morning.

 

            “I’m never completely sure of anything, Mhafi. All I know is that I read about it in an old book, Gostir insisted that I go searching for it, and Hassun told me where it is.” Zerith replied, her sides flamed with aches as she bobbed in her horse’s saddle, gripping the reins tightly. Despite the weather of the recent nights, the air was warm on Zerith’s face, her fur hood crumpled and resting upon her shoulders.

 

            “I don’t want you to get your hopes up, Zerith.” The dwarf said, his beard rustling the back of her fur parka as he shook his head. “You have lost far too much to meet disappointment yet again.”

 

 _I have lost more than you know, that is true._ She thought grimly as she urged her horse into a canter. _More than I could have the heart to tell you about._

“Which is why I have no hope for it at all at this point. I know when to press my luck and when to accept what the Valar have granted me.” Zerith retorted, wincing at her aches and pains. It seemed almost ironic that she was pushing her body with such a trip, but she had been able to get little sleep after speaking with Hassun. Their heartbreak, and his offer of a new piece of the puzzle that was her life, left her restless and wondering about all that occurred in the week that had passed. She needed more rest, but when could she ever have time to enjoy life without next thinking about when to raise her blade or speak fire?

 

“There is a delicate line between wanting the best for yourself and expecting it. Though,” Mhafi began to laugh, “I suppose you have enough experience with knowing not to expect anything!”

 

“That is correct,” Zerith laughed in return. “When I was a young girl, I expected to always be lavished in ornate dresses, reading history books ‘neath the sun shining upon the White City, and looking upon Anórien. Singing and playing the lute for the Steward in his great halls, dancing in the court, finding love, building my plaque upon the history of my people.

 

Instead, what did I receive? Dragon-fire, abandonment, harm. Burning children, fleeing from my home and my loving mother. Scarred by a wolf, taken to a strange city, only to be taken in by a strange man with a pointy-hat and abandoned again by him when I came of age. Then, the murder of my mother and uncle, and the dissolving of everything I ever knew...” Her words were cut off by the choke of the crisp air.

 

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Mhafi whispered. “You never told me what truly happened to you...what happened to them. I cannot blame you, nor could I imagine the pain.”

 

“It’s alright,” She responded feebly, sobering as she turned her gaze to the mountains shining in the distance, searching for the prophecy-stone as Applegrabber’s trail of hoof-prints trailed behind them.

 

“You don’t have to-”

 

“I know,” Zerith interrupted with a sniffle. “Only Hassun knows, and he-” She caught herself. “I can’t...let him know just how much of a burden it is, no matter how much I want to. We spoke last night, and I decided to conclude my business with him, in a manner of speaking.”

 

“Yes, about that.” Mhafi spoke up above the wind. “I had meant to wait around for you to make sure you were alright. I had a sort of bad feeling in my stomach about you speaking with him. Not a dangerous one, but just a... sad feeling I suppose. I know how much you both meant to each other, as friends or whatever you would prefer to call it. But the healers were shouting so I ran over and did what I could to help. Lost track of time after that. ‘Spose you didn’t have any trouble?”

 

“Only with Eska,” Zerith forced a chuckle. “She said she was cleaning Hassun’s clothes or something when I entered Hassun’s tent. I swear I heard her voice when you pointed it out though, among Hassun’s and the chieftain’s. Hassun told her to leave, but she was waiting outside after I left. I considered her almost a sister...and she felt the same, once. No longer.” The ebony-haired woman sighed.

 

“Ah, that woman!” Mhafi exclaimed, righting himself in his place behind her in the saddle. “Did you know that she has origins in the Dale-lands? Father was from Lake-Town, mother was Tarakona. Would explain how well she stands out from her kinsmen. Had some brothers and sisters too. All lost during the flight from the old Tarakona lands. By the Rjesa tribe, I think. We fought them during the battle alongside their allies. Nearly wiped them out.”

 

“Why would Eska have such anger directed towards me? I understand the Tarakona’s distrust of me after what they saw and heard during the battle, but what does Eska’s family have to do with me?” She asked, scanning the horizon.

“Cannot say, Zerith. She told me that she did not fight during the battle.” He replied lightly, seemingly lost in thought.

 

“Strange,” Zerith began, “since she seems to be a capable warrior. She trained me in the spear and javelin. Perhaps she is envious that I could do what she could not, especially after what she taught me. She must want revenge.” She paused, before continuing hesitantly. “Were there any other women fighting besides me?”

 

“On our side? I did not see any, though that does not mean there were not any.” He began. “I saw a few fighting alongside the enemy tribes and orckind, as strange as it sounds. Wild things, they were. Acting freer than free...” He paused, gulping. “Yet blind to their chains.”

 

“How can one feel free yet be bound?” She asked with a smirk.

 

“What the heart says, the brain does not always.” Mhafi replied lowly, more serious than she could guess he could ever be, but Zerith burst into laughter.

 

“I have never heard a wiser dwarf! Are there more of you hidden in halls somewhere that I could hire? Valar know I could need some wisdom in my daily life.” She slowed her horse briefly to look around for any signs of the stone, her gloved hand pressing against her brow.

 

“As handsome as me, lass! Of course not, and if there were, not cheaply...” He rocked in the saddle in laughter. The smile quickly flashed into a frown upon Zerith’s face as she felt the wind shift.

 

“We’re close,” She said softly, halting Applegrabber and dismounting with a sigh. She did not even turn to see if Mhafi had managed to free himself from the saddle, but the stomp of his boots upon the hard earth resonated within the soles of her shoes.

 

She felt a _pull_ , somewhere close, in the shadow of the mountains where all colors seeped into grey. Armed only with Foe’s Folly at her side, which Mhafi had been kind enough to retrieve for her after a length search for her gear, she approached cautiously. Zerith knew that the prophecy-stone had to be nearby, especially after what Hassun told her about its general location, but the battle -- and the orcs -- were fresh in her mind.

 

She wondered where the Easterling had gone, and if there was any chance they would meet yet again. If so, she knew they would meet by the edge of their blades. _What had he been doing in Lake-Town? If we had spoken then...or if I had felt threatened enough by him, would I have changed the course of the battle even further?_

In her deep self-reflection, she had let her guard down.

 

 _Reflect on the past, but do not dwell on it. For if you focus so much on your wrongs and nothing else, how can you right them?_ Gostir hissed.

 

 _I could ask you the same question._ Zerith replied lightly, turning her face so that Mhafi could not see her strange smile.

 

 _I live through you._ The dragon said flatly, his warmth coursing through her. Fire danced at her heels as she took another step onward.

 

_And yet you speak for me, with fire._

 

 _Fire, blood, destruction._ He answered her. _All traits of a dragon like myself, the greatest gifts that our Dark Lord bequeathed us. But there is--and has always been-- another side. One that Satherra saw, and one that you must represent._

 

“Zerith, I see something!” Mhafi ran to her side, pointing out towards the ground in front of her. Her vision unblurred and focused to the tip of his finger, where the ground smoothed into stone.

 

Her movement slowed, heart sinking straight into the ground. She recognized that feeling of despair as she fell to her knees, catching herself on bruised palms and by the sturdy grip of Mhafi’s shoulders holding her and keeping her face from sinking too, lost in the depths of emotion.

 

The same feeling she felt in the temple in her visions lay beneath her fingers as she splayed them across the smooth, gray stone, purer than the blankest of canvases.

 

 _This is...where you died, is it not?_ Zerith spat out the words, rolling them around in her mouth before they were forced to escape. The dragon did not respond, but she knew his answer. She felt it coursing upwards through the muscles in her arms. Her hands were drenched in dark crimson, crawling up and into her mouth and nostrils where she could only taste iron. She lay beneath a great sun, beating itself until its glowing rays engulfed her. They stilled like the glass panes of the Tower of Ecthelion, until they shattered into silver shards, pressed deeply into a warm body and cradling a heart. The last sign of their light came as the heart flashed an orange, rising through the gaps between the shards and expelling itself with a burst of flame.

 

“Zerith?” Mhafi asked, shaking her shoulders gently to rouse her from her trembling form. His beard tickled her ear as he leaned his head over from where he stood behind her, looking with tearful light eyes.

 

“Where is my spear?” Zerith asked in a whisper, her eyes glazed over.

 

“Your...spear? Broken, remember, lass?” He said slowly, knitting his eyebrows together as he went around her to crouch and get a good glimpse at her face. Even with him blocking her view of the ground, she stared into nothingness.

 

“I felt it, just here, in my hands...” Her hands searched the ground around where she knelt, before the cold shocked her system back to life and she shook her head dizzily. “No, you’re right. It was just a fever dream of some sort perhaps. In any case, this stone must be dealt with.”

 

Mhafi flashed a look in her direction before he rose and stepped aside, allowing her to crouch before the stone in its full visage.

 

“Dealt with, lass?” He asked, voice high and flowing through the wind, scratching at her fragile eardrums.

 

“This was where _he_ died...and Satherra right after.” Zerith began, staring into the stone as though the silver were flickering flames--or, perhaps more fondly, scales. “His blood awoke the stone, so perhaps...”

 

Removing her gloves, she unsheathed Foe’s Folly, bringing the tip of its blade to the middle of her palm. She pressed it into her skin firmly but lightly, her father’s weapon resistant to bleeding her, until it relented and she winced. Crimson dripped slowly and heavily upon the stone as Mhafi gasped, her sword the only thing preventing him from dashing to cradle her wounded hand.

 

Zerith pressed her bloodied hand to the stone, shivering at the cold mixing with her small cut. Mhafi stood, backing away from the stone, watching and waiting just as she did.

 

She imagined various scenarios occurring: Satherra, appearing before her, raising Zerith up and turning her to face the scores of her people, and riding alongside her to the sea; Satherra overtaking the Gondorian woman, retreating back to the seemingly carefree days of sitting crisscrossed before an enormous silver dragon in his meagre hall; Gostir’s soul swimming through the air in a flash of hazy white, mixing with the silver and red to form his great visage as he glided through the air many measures above her; Zerith, in her mother’s embrace, never imagining how it would feel to have fire rise through her voice or speak in a dragon’s tone.

 

Yet nothing happened, even as minutes passed by. Her imaginations, as she suspected, were not events nor reality; perhaps they never could be.

 

Zerith stared at her shaking hand, raising it from the stone and staring at the small mark of red in shock. The stone lay smooth as it had been, unmarred except for her blood. She cradled her wounded hand with its unmarked twin, staring at the place where her skin had blossomed in fire.

 

“Oh, lass...” She heard Mhafi sigh above her. “I am sorry.”

 

“As am I for not warning you. I had forgotten, given all that has unfolded.” She heard a woman’s voice call out softly from behind her. Mhafi’s fur coat swished as he darted his head up at the source of the voice.

 

Slowly, Zerith rose to her feet, turning her body to face the Clan-Mother, the Gondorian woman’s ebony hair partially obscuring the Tarakona guards that stood dismounted a moment behind Purnaq. Brushing her long unburdened hair away from her face, Zerith spotted Eska just behind the guards. Even through the squinting of her eyes in the sunlight, she locked on to Eska’s icy gaze.

 

The Clan-Mother’s eyes were soft as she slowly approached Zerith, brushing the back of her wounded hand with her fur sleeve as she moved to lightly touch the woman’s shoulder.

 

“The prophecy-stone, as you sought, holds no prophecies.”  Zerith tried to hide her crest-fallen face, but the pounding of her heart fueled with her anxiety and sorrow caused her head to spin.

 

“This is where _they_ both died, is it not?” She asked the Clan-Mother, her voice barely above a whisper.

 

“You are right.”

 

“But...” Zerith sucked in a breath. “One of the books I read about Gostir said that there was something to be found here. Even _he_ said so! A prophecy following his death, telling of his return. Is my blood not what it needs to awaken it?”

 

“Dear child,” the Tarakona woman rubbed her back soothingly, but Zerith felt almost chided. “It was a lie. A lie told long ago to lure out any who would hold the dragon’s soul within them. Of course, we discovered you before you discovered _it_.”

 

Zerith stood speechless, staring at the warmth in the Clan-Mother’s eyes as her lips spread into a smile of sympathy.

 

As though he read her mind, Mhafi spoke up: “What does she have now, then? She has given up blood, time, love, and the dragon’s egg-piece, all for your people! And to be lured by an honorless trick, among all things!”

 

 _Gostir..._ Zerith began in her mind, feeling as though she were floating.

 

The dragon did not respond.

 

 _Gostir,_ she began to plead, _please don’t leave me alone now._

“She has her gift from the Lossoth chieftain.” Clan-Mother Purnaq answered sharply as she turned her face towards the dwarf, who began to approach, fury in his footsteps.

 

“Which she told me she had to ask for specifically, rather than being granted it as the other mercenaries and myself did!”

 

“She is lucky to still be alive,” the old woman said, her voice losing its warmth.

 

“Thanks to your intervention, of course. And only because she saved Hassun. Even if she had killed all but one of your foes, you would place her death up for auction!”

 

“We do not argue on who should kill our enemies, but when we should deliver our blows.”

 

“And she is your enemy?” Mhafi gestured towards the Gondorian woman with a scoff. “A young woman who has shown nothing but care and concern for your people?”

 

“And what about your people, dwarf?” The Clan-Mother’s eyebrows raised. “Are dragons not the sworn enemy of Durin’s Folk?”

 

“Yes, as they have been,” The dwarf stroked his beard, his eyes flashing with an anger that Zerith had not thought him capable of. Even in battle, he seemed to reserve his jovial disposition as he cleaved orcs. “But young ladies are not. I call this woman my friend, because throughout all the tribulations she has faced in her life as well as what your people have given her, she has risen above them. And, simply because I enjoy her companionship!”

 

Zerith could not hold back the smile that blossomed upon her face as she stared down at her ‘friend’. An odd word, truly. Friendship had never been a consideration of hers, even as a young girl in Minas Tirith. Her nose had been pressed too far into her books to look up into the eyes of anyone her age. With the strange situation surrounding her father, most preferred to avoid her altogether, for which she had been bittersweetly grateful. After her departure from her home, however, friendship was off the table. The wall of fire she spewed would keep everyone away from getting too close to her, she believed.

 

Hassun had been different, though. She had learned to be _vulnerable_ for once. He had been there during too many moments of her own weakness. He had been...

 

Zerith’s heart tightened as she pondered him. They had never been ‘friends’, nor anything more. But they had been, and she was grateful for that. The opportunities he had presented her with were ones she could not allow him to suffer for.

 

 _We both knew how much we truly meant to each other...but life cannot allow us to put any substance to that meaning._ She thought with a soft sigh.

 

“If you seem to adamant to oppose who I am, why did you help me? You must have known what the other chieftains wanted to do with me.” Zerith said, her eyes scanning the horizon, trying to distance herself as much as possible from where she stood, though unable to do so physically.

 

“A sacrifice for a sacrifice,” The Clan-Mother replied with a frown, her previous showing of friendliness fading and chilling to be as frigid as the wind itself.

 

“You did not need my _permission_ to use the egg-shard,” Zerith reminded, heat rising from her chest into her shoulders. “And you had what you wanted after I gave it up anyways. It would have been easy to kill me. Or are you _that_ afraid of fire?” She asked, her lips twitching upon Purnaq’s withered gaze.

 

“We do not fear fire, but we choose to avoid conflict when we can,” Purnaq evaded with as much grace as the old woman could, “And we were weakened from the battle. Though you may not have chosen to fight back if the chieftains decided to end your life, we all know what lies within you. A warrior-woman, we have seen and dealt with. A dragon, we have had fly over our lands and so we dealt with them too. Both at once, in the same form, however? Unseen before. I know not what your true purpose is -- what lies in your heart as a woman, and what the other aspect says -- but we have nothing we are willing to risk anymore.”

 

“Chieftain Massak did not seem so eager to ask for my death.”

 

“No, you are right.” The Clan-Mother nodded as her neck hunched forward and shrunk back into her form, as though she were a turtle retreating into a world without debate. “You saved his son, and he knows how much Hassun cares for you. Hassun is the last he has in his life to love, Zerith. If Hassun ever found out--”

 

“He did not have to ever find out, did he?” She interrupted sharply, voice rising before she could notice it. “There did not have to be a trial. Any one of your people could have simply killed me in my sleep, or lay poison in my wounds! You could have told Hassun that I died from my injuries.”

 

“He would not have believed it and would have searched for as much evidence as possible before believing our words.” The Clan-Mother replied with an equally growing fury, taking a few steps towards the Gondorian. “Dark times, when a chieftain’s son would believe an outsider -- and a potential enemy of our people -- over the generations of wisdom our ancestors have imparted upon us.”

 

“Blind loyalty is a death sentence,” Zerith hissed.

 

“Please, Clan-Mother,” Mhafi interjected. “The woman has nothing now. No prophecy-stone, no egg-shard, no home and no family. She has become a pariah. Can you let this matter rest now and forever, both of you?”

 

The two women looked down at the dwarf, and then the Clan-Mother returned to search Zerith’s face.

 

“Yes, she has nothing. What more is her right to ask for?” Purnaq asked, expressionless, as though she saw the flickering flames dancing in Zerith’s blue eyes.

 

“Her ‘right’? Why you...” Mhafi’s voice faded as Zerith’s gaze flickered down to her hand, where the bleeding had stopped, and blood began to crust over upon her calloused skin.

 

 _Is that all I am bound to be?_ Zerith wondered. _A pariah, an outcast everywhere I turn?_

 

 _I am here,_ Gostir said with the sound of silky shuffling, as though he were stretching his wings. _We have not been given much from our efforts here, but we still stay together. One day, the shadows of the past will be blown away. You will not walk alone in our shared struggles._

“I have myself. And Gostir,” Zerith spoke calmly, the arguing ceasing as both parties turned their attention towards her. “None can take either from me.”

 

“Nothing is set in stone.” The Clan-Mother replied with a sweeping gesture towards where the prophecy-stone lay, dormant and silent as its former pull transformed into an oppressive push. Purnaq walked away, back to the safety of her guards and Eska’s dagger-like gaze. Zerith did not follow her departure with her eyes, but as soon as she heard Applegrabber’s snort, she knew they had faded into the distance back to the Tarakona camp.

 

Mhafi took one of her hands, squeezing it tightly. She smiled at him and felt the warmth return within her, no longer afraid of the danger it could pose to those around her.

 

“You do have my condolences, lass.” He began, tears shining in his eyes. “I know you have worked so hard to earn all that the world has given you. It’s a shame that everything has meant so little. But I believe there is more out there for you, waiting.”

 

“How can it wait for me, if I am waiting for it?” She asked with a laugh.

 

“Aye, it is an inanimate thing!” He exclaimed. “Opportunities are not ‘living’, per se. But you live. You must seek them out as much as you can. Don’t be swept up in a sea of stagnation!”

 

“Yes,” She nodded, her eyes flickering away from his face for a moment. “I have spent far too long in these lands to have been given so little. I should say I appreciate the experiences...and I am grateful for meeting Hassun and yourself, of course...but it is time to go.”

 

She turned to let her eyes linger upon the prophecy-stone, her wounded hand stinging sharply as her gaze turned to the dirt around it.

 

Kneeling in the frozen soil with an ache of her muscles, Zerith took out a squarish strip of cloth, digging with her nails into the dirt until she was able to scoop a handful of the crumbly, reddish dirt within the palm of her hands. She placed it in the center of the bag before tying it tightly and rising to her feet, placing the bundle securely in the pocket on her fur coat.

 

When she turned back to see Mhafi’s inquisitive gaze, she beamed at his confusion.

 

“To remember, though I doubt I could forget.” She answered his silent question.

 

“Where will you go?” The dwarf asked her with a small frown of worry, his forehead wrinkling with concern.

 

“Home,” She replied with a small smile. “Back to Minas Tirith. To see what has happened to my mother’s home after all that went on, and to ask around for the whereabouts of an old friend. After that? Who can say? I go where the road takes me from now on.”

 

“That is the spirit!” He stood on the tips of his toes to pat her on the back. “Oh, remind me when we reach the camp to bring you your spear and javelins. I found them during the battle and patched them up a bit. Didn’t dare to ask Eska, of course. I’m no trained blacksmith, but it would be a shame upon my people if I did not give my best effort for a friend of Durin’s Folk.”

 

“‘A friend of Durin’s Folk’?” Zerith asked amusingly as they began to walk to where Applegrabber stood, softly nickering as snow fell. “Is that official?”

 

“Well, not official.” Mhafi began as they mounted, Zerith turning Applegrabber with a swift tug upon his reins. “Though I suppose I could ask when I return home. In fact, if your travels ever take you towards the Iron Hills, you should come and visit! My wife and I would love your company. Oh, all the tales I could tell about you!”

 

“And think of all the jokes you could come up with afterwards!” She exclaimed, her worries fading as quickly as the ‘prophecy-stone’ behind her. “A dragon walks into a dwarf-hall...”

 

Their shared laughter colored the sky a bright blue, the slash of red and running tears erased from Zerith’s mind. As they returned to the encampment, the pit in her stomach dissolved into a calm resolution.

 

 _I am alive, and I still have my laughter._ She reminded herself.

 

 _And you have me, of course. Who would not long for a dragon’s counsel?_ Gostir boasted.

 

 _I can think of a few people,_ Zerith said, before her thoughts derailed upon the beginning of another one of Mhafi’s stories.

 

-o-

 

It was nearly dark when the two reached the Tarakona’s ice-wall. As Zerith stabled her horse and tended to him, Mhafi shouted that he would get the two of them some food. Aches creeped into Zerith’s sides, both from her muscles and where she had been cut or battered during the fight.

 

It was hardly her wish to leave so soon. She needed more rest, as Mhafi had reminded her more than once. But the longer she stayed in the North, the longer her life was still in danger. And the more time she had to be around Hassun, the more she would think about--

 

 _No,_ Zerith cut her thoughts to a halt. _It is over and done with. I refuse to shed anymore tears._ She was glad that for once, the dragon did not chip in to give her his thoughts. He was the last person she would ever seek advice for personal matters from.

 

She returned to the warmth of her tent with a limp, her legs and feet aching and protesting at any weight levelled upon them. Her mind was settled by the fact that most of the Tarakona resided in the Great Tent, enjoying the festivities that strong drink and hot food had to offer. She doubted that she could ever brave the crowd again.

 

The two Tarakona guards that once watched her like hawks eyeing their prey no longer stood rooted by her tent, instead patrolling her section within the camp. Their dark eyes lingered on her for a moment but returned to their duties quickly enough. It did not make her feel any less uneasy, however.

 

Once within the privacy of her tent, she unsheathed Foe’s Folly with a whisper to inspect and sharpen its edges later, unbuckling her belt and undressing down to her undergarments and a thin pair of leggings and socks. She began to pack her belongings up as she searched for something suitable to wear, before slipping an ivory linen nightdress over her head. She sat on the edge of her bed and brushed her hair until it was tangle-free and smooth through her fingers, braiding it and pinning it up into a bun. She dipped her hands into the jug of water at her bedside and massaged her face lightly, closing her eyes to run her hands lightly over them before opening them and feeling revitalized.

 

 _Armor._ She said to herself as she found her old leather jerkin, creased along the arm holes and blemished with scratches, but sturdy nevertheless. She hoped to one day get a better suit of armor, well-fitting and flexible. The armor that Gandalf had managed to find for her long ago in one of the dusty, rusted trunks inside their cottage had been tailored for a man, probably for someone young who had barely started to learn the sword. Zerith was a woman however, and the armor hid her away from the world.

 

She did not want to hide anymore.

 

 _Does any leatherworker or smith in Middle Earth even make armor for a woman?_ She asked herself, knowing the answer but debating internally with a small smile. _They would for this woman, with the right amount of conviction and coin._

“Zerith!” Her head whipped up at the sound of Mhafi’s muffled call outside of her tent flap. She quickly pushed her armor to the side, brushing the dust from her dress before moving to the side of her flickering fire, its warmth rising along her legs.

 

“What have you brought for me, Mhafi?” She replied with a smirk. “I’m famished!” It took a while before the tent flap rustled, shakily pulled back as the dwarf bounced in. He had a beaming grin above his beard as he struggled to juggle three sloshing bowls of stew within his arms, the handles of ale mugs hanging perilously from his fingers.

_Three bowls?_ Her heart thrummed.

 

The tent flap, rustling softly in the cold northern wind, was drawn rigidly even after Mhafi stood before her with an almost impish smile, the fire separating them as he moved to the side of the tent.

 

“Look who I found!” Mhafi exclaimed, staring at her fixated gaze upon the gaping wound in the tent. A head peaked out in the dim light, deep eyes shining. “I was on my way back to you when I caught sight of the man hobbling back to his own tent! Thought I’d offer my companionship...and yours too, if you wouldn’t mind, Zerith? It’s your tent after all!”

 

Hassun stepped out into the open expanse, still outside the perimeter of her tent’s entrance.

 

He leaned heavily upon one leg and did not seem to be as upright and looming as he always had been. The strenuous efforts of battle lingered in the way his breath moved across his body, abdomen contracting slightly beneath his pleated, fur-lined tunic. The shape of his shoulders was bulbous against the few lingering strings of light dancing dully in her eyes as he hunched.

 

Perhaps it was his soft, almost sheepish gaze that made him nearly unrecognizable to her, but he no longer seemed like a sturdy fir tree which could outweather any storm or hardship within or without. He was an airy fallen branch, bouncing upon every blade of grass or eroding jut of rock in its path. Somehow, he had stilled to stand within her sight, unobtrusive. She felt as though she were standing naked before his unfocused stare.

 

The clinking of wooden bowls brought Zerith out of her stupor, turning to see Mhafi struggling to balance each one alongside the drink he had poured for the three of them, the ale leaping out and down onto the soft leather rugs. She flickered her gaze back to the Tarakona man, suppressing the urge to usher him out as though he were an intruder witnessing a private moment.

 

He almost was.

 

“Of course--” She stuttered, heat creeping up her neck. “Of course, I wouldn’t mind at all! You should both come sit,” She patted the large bed behind her, “before you ruin the rugs.”

 

“Yes, what a great idea!” The dwarf exclaimed, hurrying as much as he could to gently rest the mugs of ale on the floor, then balancing the bowls of stew within the softness of her fur blankets. She slowly moved to sit on the bed’s right side, crossing her legs beneath the long length of her nightdress. The dwarf offered her a mug of ale and some stew, which she graciously took, before he plopped down on the middle edge of the bed closest to the fire, eagerly beginning to eat.

 

Her focus, however, centered around Hassun’s limping form, slowly descending upon where the bed stood. His face flinched when he passed the fire, leaning upon the side of the bed as he bent down to retrieve his ale, hissing through his teeth before he shakily rose. His hand stumbled around through her sheets before he found a stew bowl, turning with his back toward her to sit near the dwarf.

 

Not once did he give her a look in passing as he did so, but she kept her eyes solely trained on him, despite the delicious aromas wafting from the stew bowl in her hands. She felt his regret, and his pain, as though she stuck her hand into the fire and wondered why it burned.

 

 _Get a grip, Zerith_ , she said to herself. _It is over. Just act...normal?_

_What does ‘normal’ even mean for me anymore?_ She wondered.

 

 _A perfectly normal life is one of adventure and of dragons. It sounds reasonable._ Gostir rumbled warmly. She drained her mug of ale at his words, holding back a laugh.

 

“By Aulë, this stew fills my heart with joy! And my stomach, too.” Mhafi exclaimed. “Nothing feels better than a warm meal after a long day adventuring out in the cold.”

 

“I will not disagree,” Hassun replied softly, looking up from his bowl to smile at the dwarf. “Where did this ‘adventure’ of yours take you?”

 

“Oh!” Mhafi sat up straight. “Zerith and I went out in the early hours to look--” He stopped, shoulders shrugging. “It was her business, so maybe I shouldn’t--”

 

“Go on,” Zerith said softly as the two turned to look at her musing expression in the firelight. “It’s alright.”

 

“Well...” He began again hesitantly, giving her a chance to change her mind. She smiled sheepishly at him with a nod. “We looked for her ‘prophecy-stone’. Found a smooth rock and your Clan-Mother. Or rather, she found us.”

 

“The stone was a lie to draw me here. It was just rock...and nothing more.” Zerith said stiffly. Hassun’s lips pursed as his eyes flicked towards her, confusion flashing across his face.

 

“How...why?” He said, knitting his dark eyebrows together. “How could they--my people-- have truly known Gostir would return? Why would they _want_ him to return here?”

 

“Perhaps it was simply a precautionary measure,” Zerith replied, anger seeping in through her drawn countenance. “Maybe they believed that if they defeated Gostir once, they could do it again.”

 

“But in our spoken history, my people were fleeing from war and the destruction Satherra caused. We were weakened and had no desire to fight. How could we have thought to take down a dragon?” Hassun asked, resting his stew bowl on the floor and rubbing his temple.

 

“Stranger things have happened. Much of the reason for your people’s troubles was Satherra--whose troubles came from Gostir. The clans wanted to kill Zerith just for using her fire!” Mhafi exclaimed, rocking back and forth lightly, the bed creaking with his movements.

 

Zerith stayed silent, observing the two exchanging incredulous expressions. A deep weight settled into her heart, reminding her of the ache in her bones and across her chest.

 

“But the Clan-Mother defended you.” Hassun pursued, leaning his head forward to reach Zerith’s stare which was embedded in her bowl. “That is what you said. Why meet with you again today?”

 

“I suppose she thought it was important to confirm my identity...” Zerith murmured, unable to raise her gaze. “And to remind me of who I was. And how little I meant.” She looked to the fire, blue eyes glassy and distant. “Saving my life was almost like a business transaction. Insurance, even. A wounded dragon is still deadly and can breathe fire if it wishes. There was nothing more to it.”

 

Mhafi and Hassun were silent for a moment, draining their mugs of ale to diffuse the tension at her words. She thought she could see a dragon moving through the flame, but it withered away at the sound of Hassun’s voice.

 

“I made my promise to you. No matter what anyone else says.” She looked up to see him leaning slightly towards her, unblinking with the warmth of the conviction in his words.

 

“You are just one person among many Northerners. You do not rule.” Zerith replied, running a hand softly along the sheen of her hair. Hassun looked down, the tingle of his presence fleeing weakly out the tent and into the cold of the night.

 

“One person can change a great deal, Zerith.” Mhafi interjected, reaching over to place a warm hand upon her small curled fingers, resting in the middle of her bed, barren and too cold to stretch. “But I suppose you are right. Best leave the past behind and all those who would seek to drag you down, eh?”

 

“Yes,” She flashed a false smile. “Tomorrow I will be heading for warmer lands and a brighter future.”

 

“That reminds me,” Mhafi paused to gaze longingly into the depths of his mug of ale. “Your spear and javelins. I’ll take these and go get them for you so I don’t forget. Dwarves are not known for their resounding memory!” He chuckled, scooping up Hassun’s bowl and mug with one rotund arm and reaching for hers. She spotted the slight frown upon witnessing it was almost untouched. It bothered him, she knew, but he made no mention of it before swiftly departing the tent, her shrinking pupils forgetting him within the shadows’ recess.

 

It was quiet, Zerith wringing her hands to breathe the life back into them. Though only a few feet from the fire, its warmth skipped her to caress Hassun’s shrugged form, who simply sighed and tried to avoid her gaze.

She wished she could understand him. Sympathizing with his pain, _their_ shared pain, was too much for her to bear. She could not think of being able to accept the weight of anything greater upon her shoulders. But how could she come close to perceiving how much he still thought of her? How could she allow herself to think about the fact that he still wanted her, and that he hoped somehow something would change and their paths would align again?

 

He wanted time. Mhafi thought to give it to him. Zerith had no time to spare for anyone else. It seemed a cruel and selfish thing to accept, she knew. She had already given so much for him, could he not see? Zerith had nearly been killed to follow their shared path. She had almost been raped and felt with all her heart that something or someone had found a way to betray her.

 

He wanted far too much of her, but she was too tired to push him away.

 

“Does it not seem dangerous to you?” She heard him ask, millions of leagues away from her reach. She lifted her head in a daze, moving it just so to look at him through the blur of her stinging trance. “All by yourself after just fighting in a battle and being wounded. Perhaps you could go with Mhafi for a while, if an escape is truly what you want. I’m sure he would provide you great company and keep you safe. I can understand how everything must be...hard to process.”

 

Her eyebrow raised and she looked into his eyes then, feeling heat rise in her chest.

 

 _No,_ she wanted to hiss, though it would break him, _I don’t think you understand at all._

 

“Being alone is the only time I feel like I belong somewhere. No one to fear me or hurt me. No one to ask something of me. No one to hate the fire or push me into the cold.” She spat out, tears bubbling in her throat as she watched the flames dance in his brown eyes, their own light fading. He could no longer look at her, and turned away to lean on his knees, staring at the ground.

 

She almost felt insulted. Was this not what he wanted? If he wanted her love, then her honesty and heart came with it. Hassun could not have the Zerith he thought he saw without her entirety. He thought she could give up the dragon for him and be the woman he wanted. The more she thought back to the way he would look at her or speak softly to her when her heart grew tender, the more she felt disillusioned. She felt dizzy.

 

“This hurts me more than anything.” Hassun murmured as though he believed she could not hear it, faking a laugh.

 

“It should burn,” She replied without warmth. Zerith saw his head raise, then slowly turn to gaze at her abashedly from over his shoulder.

 

“Believe me, it does. If this is all some sort of lesson you wanted to teach me, you should know I never consented to becoming a student.” He called out, voice lazy and drowned in the flickering flames.

 

“You consented when you saw me as something more. Never forget the dragon.” She reminded coldly.

 

“How could I forget after all we’ve been through?” He gasped for air, running his hands across his eyes.

 

Strangely, and without her permission, her fiery words caught in her throat and she felt his sorrow and line of tears.

 

She wanted to feel _pity_ but did not dare to ruin him. He had been strong for her and his people. He had been weak, too. Hassun found, with time, that he could not hide behind a line of a thousand swords, just as she could not hide behind her fire. If it could protect them both--her radiating, golden fire-- then perhaps it would have been _enough_ for the both of them to live within.

 

There was no space for him, though. The tears welled in her eyes, his own reflected within hers. A line of fire laid between them, with the roar of a dragon flitting about the barrier. She could not be a dragon and the woman he wanted within the same being.

 

“You will in time, as I have said. It will fade.” Zerith said softly. “And perhaps you will understand and forgive me.”

 

He turned back to her, hands balled into fists as his eyes shone wetly in the fire’s glow. Frustration pulled at his clothes and threatened to dash him into the fire itself, but he sat rigidly to the bed with a sigh.

 

Wooden clanking interrupted the silence just outside the tent, the pair turning their heads towards the sound as a spear poked through the gap in the tent to push back the flap.

 

“Zerith, you should be lucky to have me!” Mhafi shouted, his words muffled against the leather of the tent flap as he stumbled in, javelins knocking against one another lightly within their leather bindings. Her spear was held tightly in one of his hands, its length running down his arm and towards the floor.

 

“And why should I be so lucky?” She asked, sucking in a breath to fill her words with as much amusement as she could muster. Her heart retreated from her sleeve to its safe space in the pit of her stomach, ashamed and nearly broken.

 

“Other than for bringing them to you?” He quipped, setting her weapons down next to her shield in the soft shadows of the corner of the tent. “I managed to find them in the rubble and beneath the stink of orc corpses. The javelins are not your original sort and the spear was in bad shape, but I managed to convince Eska to fix it. Told her the Chieftain wanted to round up all the weapons we could find in case of another attack.”

 

“You...lied for me?” Zerith asked with a growing smile, her heart aflutter in her stomach as she watched the dwarf bounce between her weapons and the fire. “And to Eska?”

 

“She eyed me like I were a wee child with a stolen toy behind my back...but had no real reason to argue with me.” Mhafi said, flashing Zerith a mischievous grin. “Dwarves are trustworthy after all!”

 

“History may disagree with you, but _you_ are trustworthy enough for me.” She replied with a laugh, tucking her hair behind her ears as she leaned off the bed to reach for her spear. It had clearly been damaged, crushed beneath a massive pile of bodies or lost in rubble and mud lit aflame. While the tip remained intact and carefully sharpened, part of the shaft had either been hit with such an impact to crack its exterior, or had been broken in two entirely, and repaired with wood of a slightly different sheen. It made no difference to Zerith, however, if it bit just the same. She rested her fingertips lightly upon the point and found that it did.

 

“I didn’t realize you had become so proficient.” Hassun said behind her, and she smiled.

 

“I know how to use them to kill. That does not mean I have a particular skill in them that is noteworthy in any regard.” She smirked at him from over her shoulder as he stood and passed the fire, looking over the dwarf’s head at her.

 

“In time, you may change your viewpoint.” He replied, the words spilling out more harshly than she assumed he meant. They stung her heart like wasps in Anórien. Did he forget her stubbornness _already_?

 

“Don’t worry, lass.” Mhafi patted her shoulders lightly. “When I was your age I didn’t know haft from heel of my axe,” He smiled, “but with experience I grew to be one of the best-looking and fiercest dwarves anyone has ever known!”

 

“Oh, Mhafi!” She beamed, resting her spear upon the ground where he had put it before embracing him. He did not seem to mind that his head pressed near her stomach, as he nearly squeezed the breath out of her. She leaned down with a devious grin to whisper in his ear: “How could I even come close to comparing to a hero such as yourself?”

 

His booming laughter ruffled the fabric of her dress, grip loosened and nearly dashing himself into the fire as his body shook.

 

“You’ve already made a name for yourself! In time, many will grow to fear your blade and breath -- or to become fond of you, as I have. There is no use in overthinking heroism!” He leaned back just far enough away from her to look up at her shining gaze.

 

“That will be my greatest vice, I fear.” She replied with a sigh, taking a step back from him.

 

“I am here for you, Zerith.” Mhafi said, honesty reflecting with the deliberate movements of his lips. She dared a glance up at Hassun, who flickered between passiveness and a nearly shattered adoration. Mhafi fished around one of the coinpurses tied to his belt before retrieving one coin. It looked rather unremarkable against the shadow of the tent’s slumber, but he placed it into her hand and she brought it closer to her eyes.

 

Copper was its make, with a familiar visage minted ceremonially in the center. Khudzul surrounded the dwarf’s head like a crown in bold, deep-set lettering. Though she did not know the language, she sensed the power behind the words in her hands. The other side of the coin simply showed etched, overlapped rounded triangles. It took her a moment to realize what they symbolized: The Iron Hills.

 

“Helped the King with some funny orc business when I was a lad,” Mhafi began to explain as she marveled at the coin, “When he went to order payment, I asked only for a permanent recognition of my deeds. Sounds foolish, and it was, to give up the promise of gold. But the warmth it brought me over the years, throughout everything, was worth it. Gold is wasted and spent, but that? Treasured forever.”

 

“If it is so important to you, I cannot take it.” She shook her head.

 

“Nonsense!” The dwarf exclaimed. “And it’s not like you are keeping it forever. When you come and visit me in the Iron Hills, show the guards that coin. When I will return, I will make sure that a friend of Mhafi’s becomes a friend of my kin!” Mhafi smiled.

 

“Thank you,” Zerith whispered to him, her closing throat preventing her from saying anything else.

 

“It’s getting mighty late,” He yawned suddenly, “and the both of you need rest.” He turned back to Hassun. “I’ll make sure you get back to your tent alright, Hassun. Zerith,” Mhafi looked over his shoulder to address her, “I’ll ensure you have enough supplies to make it to Minas Tirith when you set out in the morning with Applegrabber. Best make sure that no one else touches it before you do.”

 

 _Then I really am leaving._ She thought with a deep breath. It was _her_ idea, of course, but part of it pained her. Everywhere she went, she made connections and memories. Sometimes it was hard to let them go. To let go.

 

Mhafi was right, however. The North did not trust her. She could never have expected that they would, but... it hurt to know that she had killed so many of their enemies and saved one of their leaders and received an even worse reception than just simply an ‘outsider’.

 

The North was cold beyond what she could have believed. It did not want her fire. They were the first humans Gostir had come across, and they had ultimately failed to meet what he deserved to learn about.

 

“I would appreciate that,” Zerith said with the faintest hint of a smile. Mhafi began to walk away, but Hassun remained rooted to where he stood.

 

His lips pursed slightly and she imagined him asking, _“Is this it?”_ , forehead creasing as he tried to shield his eyes from traitorous tears.

 

 _He looks at you like you make the sun rise and set._ Gostir commented as she looked back at the Tarakona man, her mind blank.

 

 _Maybe he believes I do._ She replied stiffly as his gaze faltered.

 

“Come on, you too.” Mhafi said to Hassun, grabbing his arm lightly and giving it a shake. Hassun blinked before looking down at the dwarf, who whispered something under his breath that she could not catch.

 _Maybe you do, for him._ The silver dragon wondered, twisting her wounded heart and pouring salt on it through his dagger-like teeth.

 

Then the two men were gone, lost in the silence and darkness of the night. And she was alone again, holding a coin with the face of a dwarf with tattoos on his bald head.

 

 _He saw himself as my source of strength, and now he wants me to be his. Someone will come and hold the sun up in my place. It just takes...time._ Zerith wanted to believe her own mind-words. She wanted to believe her own _beliefs_. Even the dragon could not be convinced, however.

 

_And if no one does?_

As she crawled into bed, she found that she could not answer him.

 

-o-

 

The weather was fair as she passed the Ice-Wall’s gate atop Applegrabber. Her saddlebags were packed full of enough provisions to last her as she ventured back to her home.

 

 _Home._ She wondered if such a thing could even exist for her anymore, or if it could exist at all. She left her home city once in a blaze, and as a child, could never have dreamed of being accepted back within the white walls. She might have been able to entertain her fantasies of having an idyllic life then, being young, alone, and naive. But as she grew older, her dream of books and balconies burned into ash.

 

There was nothing left in the North for her. How could such a cold land filled with even icier people welcome her warmth? But it seemed that she had left behind the South and Gondor with all of her fire. Between snow and ash, she felt lost.

 

Tears had prickled in her eyes at the gates, Mhafi embracing her within a hug that captured her breath. He begged a hundred times for her to visit, each time being answered with a resounding ‘yes’. She played his tearful smile back in her head a thousand times to wash her pain away.

 

Hassun hadn’t come. She supposed she should not have expected him to. Mhafi had mentioned that he looked for him, finding him heavily engrossed in conversation with his father about the aftermath of the battle and improvements to the wall.

 

Perhaps it was a good sign that he did not go out of his way to see her, Zerith thought as she left the Tarakona behind. Hopefully he had realized the truth behind her words and the inevitability of misfortune that seemed to fall upon her. He deserved far more despite wanting far less for himself.

 

She thought back to what she had seen at the Withered Heath. He had seemed so _sure_ about her in her vision of him. The tears which she had long held back slid freely down her face. He may have wanted to live in a world without her fire, where she could promise herself to him, but such a world could never have existed. She had been born alongside a dragon and they would remain forever entwined, at least in understanding. The prospect of finding a way to free Gostir grew further from her mind with every disappointment, but she would damn herself if she would not try with all her effort.

 

Maybe if that time came -- if they could be _free_ from each other -- then maybe she could return...but the imprint faded away with Applegrabber’s receding hoofprints, lost in the snow and submerged in the cold to be forgotten once more. Freedom would not be just a separation, but an acceptance.

 

_Did Satherra ever love anyone?_

_Who can say?_ Gostir scoffed. _It was not my concern. Why should a dragon involve himself in the petty affairs of mortals?_

_Who can say,_ Zerith mocked, _except for you, who did involve himself?_

_A toe dipped in the water, and nothing more._ The dragon hissed.

 

_I don’t believe you. “Nothing more,” you say. Dragons always want more._

_So they do,_ Gostir agreed, his voice sunless. _And so do they die._

 

-o-

 

It was a strange feeling to be returning to Lake-Town again. No Easterling, no Hassun, and a strange sense of emptiness. The North had held promise for her only to be buried beneath the snow. The dark wooden panels of carefully-constructed platforms and houses was unburnt, sinking into the shadows of the night upon the dark lake, and yet she felt a dragon’s shadow looming overhead. Perhaps it had always been this way for her, only now unveiled as she was alone and left to sink into her thoughts which had recently drowned in the darkness around her.

The wind chilled her cheeks as she stabled Applegrabber, pulling the hood of her fur cloak tightly to cradle her head and conceal much of her face. As she turned away from the slivered shadows of the stables, the shouting of the stablemen’s voices rose far higher than she cared to hear. Applegrabber’s snout sniffed fervently at her shoulder as one of the younger boys fought with his reins to bring him into a small paddock where he could rest.

 

She turned to him, stroking his neck lightly and ignoring the boy’s squinting, prying eyes. Her horse calmed and she felt somewhat vulnerable then, attached to her beloved friend when she would have preferred to remain hidden. As much as she loved her horse, her heart longed to dash away and out of any situations filled with worry.

 

Applegrabber had not seemed too bothered to be parted from her until they had ventured out alone. She looked into her horse’s dark eyes and wondered if he knew what she had been feeling. An onset of loneliness had chilled her blood as they rode together. Being alone was freeing, but it left her to her thoughts, and they were as dangerous as a pack of wolves in the shadows of the forest. Gostir was hardly a help. Disconnected from the world as well as the struggles of mankind, Zerith swayed in between irritation and pity when they would discuss more trivial matters.

 

She sucked in a dry breath as she passed faceless men and women in the dark of the night upon the lake, heading with muffled footsteps towards the tavern. She remembered how it had first felt so prominent when she and Hassun rested in Lake-Town before venturing further north. While she would always view the structure--and all of Lake-Town--precarious, the tavern was the center of the town and the most well-constructed of all the little shacks and shops.

 

Zerith smelled rain upon the air as she pushed her way in between two drunkards lingering at the tavern’s door. The glowing orange light of candles and a roaring fire in the back made her eyes burn as she was met with a crowd of people lingering at the door, huddled around the tavern keep’s bar and laughing at the tables in front of the bard she immediately recognized, fingerpicking his lute tenaciously.

 

Her painted shield clanked lightly against its place hooked to pack on her back as a man and a woman rushed out of the door, hand-in-hand with flushed laughter. Zerith’s mouth upturned as her eyes flickered to them, then steadily back to the tavern keep.

 

The creaking of wood was barely audible as she found a seat at the bar, fidgeting self-consciously as she leaned forward, the shadows of her hood and hair blanketing much of her face.

 

“What can I get for you?” She finally heard the tavern keep say in front of her, and Zerith lifted her head just far enough so that her voice could raise above the soft roar of the tavern’s patrons.

 

“A room, some food, and a drink if you wouldn’t mind, please.” She asked, sliding a few gold coins upon the bar top, which the tavern keep swiped up eagerly.

 

“Those I can do for you.” He said below his bushy red mustache. “Anskar!” The tavern keep shouted, and a young man with wide eyes ran from a storage room behind the bar’s racks of wine and ale. “Get a room ready for this lady here,” He said, poking a calloused finger out towards where Zerith sat, shrouded in the comforting darkness of her hooded cloak. The young man, Anskar, nodded fervently as his eyes flickered to her figure for a moment before he disappeared into the crowd, nearly knocking a few men over.

 

“I don’t know why I bother with that boy,” The tavern keep muttered as he sat a bowl of steaming stew alongside some crusty bread and a mug of ale before her. She said her thanks as she began to eat and listen to the sounds around her. “He can hardly tell the difference between his head and his arse!” The mustached man exclaimed as he turned his back to pour a glass of wine for another patron.

 

When he returned to her, he paused for a moment, trying to catch a better glimpse of Zerith between her dark hair and wolfish appetite.

 

“You’re not one of them Rangers, are you?” He asked warily. She looked up at him, wiping her mouth. “Heard there was some trouble up North with the tribal folk. Don’t know much about them, but you seem like the kind of lass to get herself into more trouble than she should.”

 

“Yeah,” Zerith chuckled, swallowing her nervousness. “I’m...you could say that. Wasn’t up that far though, can’t say anything about it.”

 

His eyes lingered on hers for a while, searching for a reason to doubt her. He opened his mouth, looked away and scoffed with a shake of his head before speaking. “A shame,” He announced to the bar. “But,” She spotted the twinkle in his eye. _Here we go. He was preparing to ask me for some sort of assistance._ “I’ve heard a rumor that the Rangers like to sing, and you’ve a pretty voice there. Soothing. Do you sing?”

 

_Sing?_

 

“I...no, not since-”

 

“Oh, come on! How about this,” He leaned across the counter, resting his hands upon the lip as he brought his full attention towards her. “A song for a drink. Wouldn’t want to let your company down, lass!”

 

A few of the patrons turned to regard her as she stared dumbly at the tavern keep, who raised one brow with a smile.

 

_Really? He tries to make me an offer I cannot refuse..._

_Yet you can._ Gostir hummed.

 

 _Gold coins don’t grow on trees, Gostir._ She retorted.

 

 _Neither do good songs._ He rumbled with amusement.

 

 _I can’t sing!_ She cried out, shoveling the last of her stew into her mouth as her hope of somehow fleeing the tavern unnoticed grew futile. _Well, I have the ability to sing, but-_

_Come now, Zerith._ The dragon tried to coo to her as though she were a young child trying to take their first steps, but the natural growl in his voice only made her more frustrated. _Do you honestly believe that you could do no worse than that heap of a man over there?_

 

The back of her neck tickled, and she slowly turned her head towards the roaring fireplace, where the bard with far too many chins sat in the corner, bouncing as he bellowed a folk song.

 

 _I could do far worse than anyone here._ Her face flushed.

 

 _Yet you won’t._ He said.

 

His words brought her no comfort, but the fire warmed her face and she looked back to the waiting visage of the tavern keep. She looked around at the many people around her. Most seemed disinterested or purposefully avoiding her presence.

 

_There are so many people here..._

_You’ve fought in a battle with far more people. A song will not kill you._

_It just might._ She sighed.

 

“Fine,” Zerith huffed. “A song for a drink.”

 

 _That_ had garnered some attention, for the men and women around her looked over at the sound of the tavern keep’s boisterous laughter. Her face flushed with the warmth and the frantic beating of her heart.

 

“Good, good!” He exclaimed. “Go and tell the bard that I’ve baked him some fresh gooseberry pie, as tribute to his ‘mastery of the art’. Should be enough time for you, I’d hope.” He then leaned in to whisper: “He doesn’t much fancy competition.”

 

“Lovely,” She replied, paling as she stood and walked hesitantly across the edges of the tavern until she stood within a small gathering of patrons who were listening to the bard singing a song about war. It sounded somewhat familiar, but she could not put the song to name.

 

 _By the Valar,_ Zerith thought. _What am I going to sing?_

 

As a child, she took up the art of music as with anything else; full of gusto and enthusiasm, she would comb through the stained pages of songbooks of old, looking for a new tune to treat her mother to. Faendes had loved to sing to her when Zerith was a babe, and her beautiful voice had only ceased in its ministrations once her father had died.

 

One of the last songs that Zerith ever remembered singing was one about a Gondorian woman and her love, lost to war. When she presented it to her mother, even she could not find the spirit to praise her enthusiastically. It had been just after her father’s passing. Thinking back on it, the words would have greatly reminded her mother about her loss.

 

“That was...wonderful, dear. Truly wonderful, as always.” Faendes had once said to her, voice watered with tears as she hurriedly excused herself to another room to wipe away her tears. As a child, Zerith thought to question her about what she had done wrong, but the sadness she witnessed was perfumed and masked in the scents of Minas Tirith. Now, as an adult, she could imagine the pain of hearing such a song as though it were her own.

 

When the bard finished his song, she took the opportunity to approach him. He eyed her with a drawn mouth as she invaded his space. She drew her hood back, giving him a sheepish smile as his eyes wandered over her overdressed frame.

 

“Sorry, I don’t take requests.” He said simply, beginning to engross himself with tuning his lute.

 

“Oh,” Zerith began with a laugh. “Forgive me. The tavern keep sent me to tell you he baked you a fresh gooseberry pie! He wanted to give it to you now as a token of his appreciation of all you do here.”

 

“Did you say...gooseberry?” The bard’s eyes lit up. “I’m sure it can wait until-”

 

“No, it must not wait!” Zerith exclaimed with a dash too much forcefulness. “I’ve sampled many pies from all across the land, and you cannot let them rest for too long. What care will the patrons give in a few minutes of silence amongst their conversations?”

 

“Yes,” He rose from his stool next to the fire. “By the Valar. I’m coming, my darling!” He stormed past her in a flurry of strings and fabrics, laughter rising amongst the congregation of people near the fire as they watched him fail at people-weaving.

 

She looked around, glad to see that no one seemed to notice her lingering presence at the bard’s seat. She slipped from her pack’s straps, taking a seat upon the stool and resting her pack and shield facing forward between her feet. Her hands smoothed over her dark braided hair as her eyes flickered apprehensively across the tavern. Below, she thought she could almost hear the sloshing of water upon the lake.

 

The tavern keep was busy cleaning a glass at the corner of the bar, engrossed in chatter with a few people. He smiled down at them, and then gestured towards where she sat, waiting and watching in stillness. They craned their necks to follow where he pointed to, shifting their seats so that they could face her.

 

_Valar, he really isn’t going to let me get away, is he?_

 

She took a deep breath, tore her gaze from the bar towards one of the tiny windows by the door, and began to sing:

 

“A flow’r for her love did Inneth bestow,

Upon silver light she beamed.

She begged of her lord to flee in the night,

And be hers as she had dreamed.

 

Please never leave me, leave me, leave me.

Please never leave me alone.

Please never leave me, leave me, leave me.

Please never leave me alone.”

 

Her voice was soft and distant as she began. She wanted to run as a few people gradually began to spare a glance over to where she sat. They steadied their gaze upon her, and more followed. Perhaps they were surprised at the bard’s absence, Zerith could not guess. She continued, louder than before, so that her voice would gently wash over the room.

 

“Winter fell, spring rose, summer dawned again.

She watch’d past the balcony’s wing.

Though in her heart, she had known of how much she had paid,

For the price of the departing.

 

Please never leave me, leave me, leave me.

Please never leave me alone.

Please never leave me, leave me, leave me.

Please never leave me alone.”

 

The tavern keep seemed pleased as most of his patrons turned their attention to regard her, if only for a moment. An older woman clutched her child’s shoulders upon a bench in front of the fire, close enough so that Zerith could feel the warmth in their sad smiles. Zerith lost herself in the warmth of the tavern, and in the sea of many faces that might _know_ her, and certainly remember even when she had departed the tavern.

 

The bard returned with a plate cradled in his hands, stuffing his face with the pie and flashing her a nasty look as he stood amongst the rest of the patrons, looking ashamed to having been tricked by a ‘competitor’.

 

“More than I should think to breathe,

Or e’er I desire to sleep.

This sword you move to unsheathe,

Leaving nothing but a blood-red weep.

 

I will never, ever, leave this.

I can never leave this alone.

I will never, ever leave you.

I can never leave you alone.

 

Again, once more, three times did she wait.

The years passed through the trees.

The banners returned, shattered and burnt,

Her heart fell to her knees.

 

He left her, left her, left her.

Her love had left her alone.

He left her, left her, left her.

Forever she was alone.”

 

When her song met its end, she let out a great sigh of relief, and fled from the stool quicker than she came. With every step, she felt the stares attach to her cloak and trail at her back. She returned to the tavern keep, almost seething in the wave of her emotions.

 

“A song for a drink,” She declared with a frown. “I’ve done my part, now do yours. I’d like my gold piece back.”

 

The tavern keep laughed, fishing in a pocket to meet her demands as the other men and women sat at the bar joined in his merriment at her expense.

 

“Don’t suppose you’re looking for work?” He asked her soberly.

 

“I’ve more important things to do at the moment,” She drew back her anger, knowing that the man had only meant well for the most part, though he enjoyed her anxiety. Anskar had poked his head out of the storage room, regarding Zerith with a smile.

 

_When the sun rises, we are not going to be seeing civilization for a long time. I can assure you that._

 

“Boy!” The tavern keep yelled, not bothering to look over his shoulder. “Show our fine lady to her room.”

 

He dutifully obeyed, rushing around the bar to where she stood. He offered his arm to her, which she refused with a shake of her head and a small, pitying smile. She followed him as he clumsily pushed his way through the taverngoers, wrestling the drunken drops of ink upon the tavern floor as he showed her to the hallway in the back corner of the tavern which was lined with doors on each side.

 

With every stride, Zerith kept her eye out for shadows flickering upon the edge of her vision, wondering if she would ever see that Easterling man again. She had been afraid the first time of the way he looked at her, but now felt as though she would do anything to kill him. If she had somehow killed him, would the battle in the North somehow turn out differently?

 

 _Would I be different?_ She wondered but doubted she could ever know the answer with certainty.

 

“Right here,” Anskar gestured to the room at the end of the hall, pressing the room key into her palm before hearing his name being shouted and dashing down the hallway.

 

Zerith looked around, glad to see that this was one of the quietest areas in the tavern. She had a high suspicion that things would change as the night went on, but she could ignore it within the safety of her room for the most part.

 

As soon as she entered the small room, she swiftly shut and locked the door and pushed a small bookshelf in front of it. The room was sparse otherwise, as she expected it. One small bed adorned with a few patterned quilts and soft fur blankets, a nightstand, desk and chair, and a trunk at the foot of the bed. She began to quickly relieve herself of her burdens, resting her pack against the trunk and her sword and its sheath near the nightstand in case she needed it. She undressed, feeling as though an entirely different person had been wearing her armor and cloak as it freed itself from her.

 

She slipped on a nightdress and ventured over to the bookshelf, hoping for a story to rest her racing mind. But just as she did so, her heart twisted.

 

Leaning her forehead against the door, she mouthed: “Hassun never got to hear me sing.”

 

-o-

 

Brown flooded into lush green as Applegrabber and Zerith approached Emyn Muil, the treacherous maze of hills and rocky cliff faces marking one of their last challenges before Anórien. While she had thought to pass through the Wold and into Rohan’s fields on her way home, she had longed to see the Gate of Kings. The first and last time she had seen it was when her father took her as a small child. Now, many years later, she found that she could no longer remember the facial features of Isildur and Anárion.

 

She regretted her decision as soon as she entered the hilly landscape, but by then it seemed futile to navigate her way out of the dangerous peaks and crests. It was slow going atop Applegrabber, but without his height, she was unable to see what lay ahead of the both of them.

 

Their navigation troubles were only exacerbated by the fact that it had just rained; the mud and slickness often caused a sudden misstep that would make Zerith lurch forward in the saddle, and as the path in front of them narrowed, she willed herself to focus on what was in front of her and not the steep drop a few feet away.

 

“No map,” Zerith puffed to herself, “but has anyone actually taken the time to explore these hills fully?”

 

She looked around and up at the hills surrounding them, wondering what manner of beasts could ever want to live in such an inhospitable environment.

 

 _Perhaps an inhospitable people?_ She thought to herself. _Orcs, goblins, bandits, wild men..._

“Oh, come now, Zerith!” She whispered to herself, voice wavering. “Your father was one of those ‘wild men’ and he became a noble protector of Gondor. I’m sure if we come across any of them, we can just say we know him...right?

 

...no, because he never lived in these lands. And I doubt they would even understand what we were saying anyways.”

 

After a few hours of attempting to find her way out at an excruciatingly slow pace, she stopped at the base of one hill. Being surrounded by peaks that seemed to reach the sky, she could see no visible landmark that could point her in the right direction, nor could she hear the sounds of water.

 

Although she had enough supplies to last her at least a week if she consumed them sparingly, beyond what little game or water she could possibly find, panic began to set in.

 

“My dear friend,” She stroked her horse’s neck as she leaned forward ever so slightly to catch his proud gaze, “I do not trust myself as much as I trust you. Which way should we go?” She looked around towards the many hills and their winding paths. Some were as steep as the paths she had already braved, and others were smooth and steady yet long. She felt nearly suffocated amongst the hills, with far too little sky above her.

 

Applegrabber simply snorted and bobbed his head forward.

 

“Forward?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Yes, but we have been going that way this entire journey and we should have been free from these hills an hour ago. No forests in sight, as it rightly should be.”

 

Again, he bobbed his head forward, and she instead looked to the tip of his velvety-soft nose, which pointed down into the mud which was spotted with deeply-set boot prints. As she looked around, she noticed there was no other sign of movement other than the way in which they had come.

 

“Forward,” Zerith agreed hesitantly as she ushered him on, “but slowly.”

 

This path was easier to climb than the rest, far wider and less rocky, but the shadows cast from the hillside blanketed much of their way in shadow. Even the sun seemed to darken itself as they continued on, Zerith’s eyes darting carefully upon their way.

 

As the boot prints kept continuing, Zerith wondered who they belonged to. A wild person like she had feared? Perhaps a lone traveler lost like herself? They were alone, at least. She had her sword, shield, spear, and javelins, not to mention her fire. Nothing could break her fire, she knew.

 

The sun was slowly beginning to set, and she knew she would need to find a safe place to camp before the path became indecipherable against the murky cliffside.

 

“I wonder where Gandalf ended up venturing off to,” Zerith began to talk softly as she kept her eyes on the path ahead. “I wonder what he’ll think of you, Applegrabber. Wizards and apple-stealing horses...” She laughed. “I wonder how they would mix. What do you think he’ll think about me and everything I’ve done?”

 

Zerith frowned.

 

“I doubt he would be happy about what happened in the North. He wanted the best for me, and never wanted me to be a part of a war or any sort of bloodshed. But the day I received my fire was the day I became a part of the world’s way of violence. I never meant to hurt anyone, but my fire burned and _singed_ those children beyond my control.

 

I wonder what sort of figure that brown wizard, Radagast, is. Gandalf never spoke to me about the other Istari very often. He only mentioned that there had been five Wizards sent to Middle Earth. If I were a Wizard, I doubt I would ever want to stay in one place for too long with my powers!

 

Perhaps that is why he left me? Maybe he thought I was ready to be on my own, no matter how wrong that was. Uirien had been up to no good. Could he have been protecting me? I cannot fathom a solid guess. All I know is that the memories we shared as I grew older seem so far away; once, I thought to swing a sword as though it were a loaf of bread. He had never berated me, only laughed, yet I knew he knew far more than I could have ever dreamed about swordsmanship and weaponry. He was careful with me, too careful perhaps. If I had fully realized my fire early on, none of this may have happened. At least, I would not have had to face the world feeling so alone.

 

It is in the past now, however, my dear friend. Is it not?”

 

Just as she had finished speaking, she heard a sharp gust of wind and something wet splattered her face, causing her to close her eyes in a grimace. She wiped it from her eyes and when she opened them, she saw that her hand was covered in sticky wet blood.

 

Applegrabber lurched to the side with a scream, an arrow lodged into his neck and weeping with his lifeforce.

 

Zerith whipped her head towards the arrow source, her vision blurring as her horse fell, legs losing themselves from the saddle. She fell alongside her horse, face-first into the mud which quickly mixed with her horse’s steaming blood.

 

She could hear Applegrabber’s labored breathing next to hear but she could not will the blood back into her own limbs, her breath being knocked out of her and trapped between her face and the ground.

 

Numbness gnawed at her insides, fear creeping chillingly into her bones as swiftly as it had been felled.

 

There was approaching laughter from afar as she attempted to rise on the palms of her hands shakily, and she counted the seconds as footsteps drew nearer towards her.

 

Just as she guessed her assailants were upon her, she rose to her knees, reaching for her sword as she whipped her head back, fire rising to her throat. Yet before she could expel her heated wrath, something hard cracked the back of her head and she fell forward in a spell of darkness.

 

The world fell in and out of her view as the laughter began to roar ever into the sky. Her motionless body was turned around, face falling towards where the body of her slain companion lay, blood glistening upon his bay coat as though they were small rubies.

 

She wished, then, that she could have adorned him such -- barding encrusted in those beautiful rubies, prancing through the streets filled with eyes of adoration, past the domed clay buildings, the sun upon her shoulders in that gown of red -- but the dream was lost. Dashed upon the hills and nestled in the Withered Heath where it should have stayed. There were hands at her clothing, but she felt nothing with the buzz of the laughter and shouting.

 

Even if she could have protested, would it have mattered? Would anything have mattered anymore to her, after losing all she thought she had needed in the North? There was fluttering above her head, a tiny shadow casting itself upon Applegrabber’s dingy flank, and then it was gone. She could taste pollen in her mouth, peppering the mud and blood.

 

“Unburnt and unbroken,” A voice said as pain coursed through her body and nails pierced her skin, returning her to a nightmare that she could not turn her head to gaze upon. Just as the world faded from her eyes, the fire fell from her mouth in a silent whisper and the scent of burning horseflesh filled the crackling air.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a very bad person, I know. 
> 
> Things are going to get worse, be prepared.
> 
> Anyways, what are your thoughts or opinions? I always love to receive constructive criticism. The next chapter is going to be a monster to write due to its subject matter, so I hope I don't botch it up too badly. Let me know your predictions on any potential foreshadowing or allusions in this chapter, and what could come next. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	15. Soulless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of rape/sexual assault, depiction of injuries/violence
> 
> Hello everyone, welcome back. I hope you enjoy this chapter as depressing as it may be.
> 
> As for a song, I was listening GoT again. In the first scene specifically, Season 4's 'Forgive Me' was pretty potent. Made me tear up a little as I was writing (maybe it was my hormones or remembering Season 8). Here's an 8-minute long version if you'd like to listen while you read:  
> [Forgive Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=anljHZX8124&list=PLXemTP8FSQ_BhpX8zzYC5LfC9zpjWVTC7&index=52)
> 
> Oh, and you may get to a certain point in this chapter where you're like "Okay...everything is pointless now." I promise it's not. Everything is going to be okay.
> 
> Read, be calm, and enjoy.

Chapter 15: Soulless

 

            She could hear the darkness echoing somewhere far away. Trickling, echoing like pebbles on bounced across the surface. Her hand was there somewhere, too far away for her to grasp. She searched around and thought she felt it.

 

            _There!_ She cried.

 

            But it was gone like everything else among the darkness. The blackness began to burn her, and she shrunk away from it.

_Why?_ She thought she was a dragon. Dragons can’t burn. It never hurt that much before. She saw the red with gold flecks in it, upon a purer silver than she could imagine. It called her to the light, as though she were but a small sapling screaming for as much sun as she could bear.

 

            “A sapling?” She heard a voice say, turning in the blackness of her sight towards a pretty red-haired woman with a flower crown. Her smile was more radiant than the sun could ever be, even to a sapling. She waved towards the woman, who frowned and began to flee towards the light, dancing through its opening.

 

            “I’m coming,” she promised the colors and the woman. Every stroke more, further back. Her left arm began to float away without a proper good-bye. Yet it still swam on towards the light, stroking with her stroke.

 

            “When you set sail in the sky. When your fire turns to ash, and reignites with the passion of your love. When the sweetest of wines run red with blood, and the clouds turn to silver. And when you are called ‘mother’, yet you bear no child. Only then.” The woman’s voice called out through the light-opening.

 

She began to race towards it, faster then she thought should have ever ran upon the earth.

 

            _There it is._ Her foot fit within the light-crevice so fluidly, she threw her whole body towards it. As she should have guessed, her body bounced back.

 

            Tears streamed down her face. Why should she be rejected? She was _beautiful_ , too, as the woman was! Did they not _see_ her? She could burn the flowers all away to ash, and where would there be beauty then, but only in the fire’s destructive warmth?

 

            Sighing out of frustration, she attempted to slip through the opening again, with more patience.

 

            Her leg slipped through, disappearing as it twitched. The other one followed. She felt a deep ache in her womb as her abdomen passed through. The pain was so great she began to cry, yet there was something missing to the pain.

 

It didn’t just hurt there...it was supposed to hurt somewhere else. Her hands skimmed

across her body but she could not find that strange place. She persevered through the pain, pushing her chest through the light.

 

            She felt it. It was hammering into her, more painfully than anything she could have ever felt before. Right there, below her neck...

 

            ...it had a name to it, what was it?

 

            It quickened its pace as she began to think harder about it, but she could not yet place it. Out of curiosity, she tried to remove herself from the light, but her legs kept tangling on something.

 

            “I’ll burn them all!” She shouted. _It must be those flowers!_

 

            But she didn’t want to burn the woman. She seemed familiar, as though she had known her all of her life, amongst the silver and red and gold. Flecked upon the night sky, she spotted the woman’s smile among the stars.

 

            There were footsteps behind her head, and she craned her neck to see, but the rest of her body was submerged in light.

 

            An older woman with greying, bronze hair and eyes as vivid as ivy stood with her eyebrows furrowed as she looked upon the young figure. Her dress was light and airy, the skirts embroidered with flowers.

 

            A man stood next to her, smiling his warm, crooked smile as his hand wrapped around the older woman’s side affectionately. His helmet was curved like bird wings, framing his tanned face and complimenting his silvered armor with a tree upon his tabard.

 

            “Where are you going?” They asked her in unison.

 

            _Who is ‘you’?_ She wondered but could not guess. There was another sound, approaching quickly.

 

            “Ah, that’ll be the horse to carry you swiftly upon your journey.” The woman said softly with a smile.

 

            The horse, bay and covered in mud, approached at a gallop before gradually slowing and stopping right where her head rested by the light’s entrance.

 

            She looked up into his eyes and saw herself reflected in them.

 

            _I’m a ‘you’. I’m a ‘me’, and an ‘I’._ She realized. _There’s a ‘something’ to the ‘you’s. ‘me’s, and ‘I’s. But what could it be?_

Her nose twitched.

 

            _What is that?_

 

            There was a burning smell, mixed with something smelling like an old rusty sword. It came from the horse.

 

            “No,” She whispered as she gazed into the horse’s eyes. She turned to the man and woman.

 

            Their faces had been melted away, dripping down the pretty dress and armor emblazoned with a tree. The horse remained, steadfast.

 

            “I remember you,” She whispered to it. “I don’t remember them anymore.”

 

            The horse gently nudged at her forehead with his velvety nose.

 

            “I don’t remember them...because they are so far away. But you’re so close. I knew all of you once.” She turned to look back at the faceless couple. “But now you’re gone, yet standing here. And I’m here, too. But I shouldn’t be.”

 

            She looked towards the light-opening.

 

            “Something happened out there to bring me here. I should go find out what it was.” She decided.

            “Don’t go!” The woman shrieked, reaching towards her but not quite reaching where she lay.

 

            “We missed you,” The man admitted, in a slow, methodical voice.

 

            Her throat tightened. _They...missed me?_

 

            She repeated the words in her head until it made sense.

 

            “I’ve missed you, too.” She admitted. “I don’t belong here though. Everything’s too far. Away. I’m the ‘you’...and that ‘you’ is Zerith. I want to be Zerith, and Zerith doesn’t want to be here anymore.”

 

            And Zerith slipped the rest of her body through the light-opening, her head pounding as she did so. But when the light finally hit her eyes on the other side, she wished she had stayed amongst the dark, faceless faces.

 

-o-

 

            The light hit her eyes, and it _burned_. Her head was pounding like a thunderstorm. Her heart was aching, beating frantically. The muscles in her neck twitched, straining as she had been slouching in the same position for far too long. Her insides were twisting as though a knife had been wrenched into her lower abdomen, yet it felt oddly empty. Was there something supposed to be there? Zerith could not guess. She looked down and saw that one of her legs was twisted in a strange orientation, and she could not muster it to move.

 

            Gradually, sight returned to her, as did the depth of her pain. Her whole body shook as she gazed down at her bloodied, dirty form in the darkness of what seemed to be a cavern. The glow from a fire pervaded her peripheral vision, but she did not dare to look upon it.

 

            Her armor was nowhere to be seen, stripped away from her. Only her bloodied tunic and pants were left, as well as her socks. Not even her smooth leather boots had been allowed to cover her feet in the dank chill of the cavern. As she knew she should have guessed, her weapons and the rest of her gear were nowhere to be seen.

 

            Zerith’s mouth felt dry and filled with cotton, and as she tried to move her tongue around, she found that she had been gagged. The rough cloth tied around her jaw and in her mouth was rough against the back of her head. Her hands had been tied behind her back as well, and with each slight strain of movement, her wretched leg screamed in pain, as did the rest of her body. She could not cry out through the silencing cloth, only able to produce a small muffled whimper. The inside of her thighs were slick with blood as they rubbed against each other.

 

            Slowly, she turned her head to the right, towards where the fire blazed and illuminated the cavern walls.

 

            A woman with shiny mahogany hair stood at the head of a large brazier. Holding a small orb in one hand and a large jar in the other, Zerith’s captors knelt before her in the silence of her smile.

 

            _Unburnt and unbroken._ Zerith chilled as she looked upon them. _How can I save myself this time?_

 

            At the front of the group, a man with a melting, twisted face knelt, dressed in black. As though he sensed her stare, he looked over at her and sent her a smile that froze her heart in its rhythm.

 

            _I don’t remember your name, all those years ago._ She thought to herself, fire rising inside her chest. _I wish I never had burned you, but I hope that I can turn you into ash for all you’ve done to me. You’re not unburnt and you never will be._ All that Zerith could think of as she stared at the deformed figure was her uncle and mother, their blood staining her skin.

 

            Behind him stood the red-haired woman with missing fingers, one half of the twins that she had singed. The other half rested against her side, bald and garbed in jewels. A glittering gold chain hung heavily from his leathery neck.

 

            Zerith did not recognize the other members of the group -- the _Unburnt_. It did not matter to her who they really were, however -- they had pledged their allegiance to the group in order to make her pay for what she had done.

 

            “We have been waiting for you, Zerith.” The woman standing within the fire’s heat lilted, chilling Zerith’s blood as her eyes flickered up to the woman’s pointed ears.

 

            “Uirien,” She tried to spit out, but it only came as a short moan.

 

            “Now, now,” The elleth continued, and in a sweeping motion called the Unburnt to stand. They did so, turning and taking a wide path from the fire as they approached where she lay. “Did your mother ever teach you your manners?”

 

            “I’ll kill you,” Zerith hissed through her gag, tears threatening to prickle at her eyes.

 

            “No?” Uirien tilted her head. “What a shame. When I first met you, I saw nothing but a young foolish girl who played with fire while the ‘Wizard’ flitted about. Now, that ‘Wizard’ is gone, and the girl remains.”

 

            There were rough hands at her shoulders as she was lifted from the ground. She screamed out as her useless leg hit the hard rock, the pain trailing from her leg and across her stomach and sides. The echo of laughter roared in her ears as melted skin rubbed against her cheek and she began to move involuntarily.

 

            “Who can we blame?” Uirien continued as the Unburnt dragged Zerith towards the fire, where the elleth stood in wait. “Your father was nothing but another body grinded within the machine of war that Men revere. Your mother was a product of the cleansing. You, my dear, are but a vessel. You certainly have made it very difficult for me to retrieve my master’s gift. Travelling all across Middle Earth, and fighting a war in the North.”

 

            The fire flickered against Zerith’s bloody cheeks as the Unburnt presented her before Uirien. Holding her up from the ground, they were the only sources of strength keeping her upright as her core tightened with the pains of her broken body. Then, they released her all at once and she fell to the ground with a cry, tears leaking from her eyes as she landed on her broken leg and slumped to the side, her face pressing perilously close to the surface of the rock.

 

            Uirien seized her throat, leaning close to where she lay. Her pointed nails scraped against the soft skin of Zerith’s neck as her vision was enveloped by Uirien’s unrelentingly merciless steel gaze. She recognized the strange sheen of silver in her hair. It was impure, unlike the elves of Lothlorien or Mirkwood. Uirien had sunken so deeply into the Evil, that it freckled her pointed, radiant face.

 

            “Yes, we found out about all that went on there.” Uirien hissed, as though she recognized the shine of confusion in Zerith’s tearful blue eyes. “You’ve made quite a few enemies for someone so _young_ and _innocent_.”

 

            The laughs of the Unburnt were wicked knives plunging into Zerith’s spine. Uirien’s eyes flickered up to them with a smile as she released Zerith, her body falling back down against the cold stone. She turned her head slightly, agonizingly, towards the fire.

 

            “Yet you are not so innocent, are you?” Uirien gestured towards the Unburnt. “You have harmed them all in some way. You pierced into the fabric of their life and tore what they held so dearly to shreds. Yet they have risen. Unburnt, and unbroken, they are faithful to my side. Even though your fire spread to but a few, the wounds you inflicted upon this world run deeply and will not be forgotten.”

 

_Gostir,_ Zerith cried out, her heart quickening its frantic pace with the growing anxiety of being alone. She was going to die.

 

            He did not reply, but she felt him there, somewhere, like a shadow overhead. It gave her some small comfort, even as the fire was suppressed in her throat.

 

            “You have only delayed the inevitable. My Master will return. It does not matter if it is a decade or a century from now. Your Wizard cannot stop it. Men cannot stop it. The elves flee to the comfort of the Valar. Even they have abandoned hope. And dwarves hide in their halls. Who could stand against the rushing flood, and against dragon fire?” Uirien stared into the fire, throwing her orb into its depths and using her unburdened hand to search upon the belt of her dark dress, retrieving a wickedly curved dagger and holding its tip above the licking flames.

 

            _Gostir,_ Zerith called again. _You said ‘together’. Now would be a good time for togetherness._

 

            Just as she called out, she thought she heard the flap of wings somewhere up above. Her eyes flickered to the blackness where the cavern ceiling crested and thought she could imagine him there.

           

            _You said, “The past stays, the future remains.” But the past has returned and my future is coming to its end!_ Zerith pleaded.

 

            As her mind quieted, a soft roar was heard somewhere between her eyebrows. It was growing fainter, yet she could clearly hear the pain in it. She recognized it whenever she brought up his past, and the way his temper strained.

 

            _He’s distancing himself from me..._ Zerith thought, watching as the fire illuminated the etched curves of the dagger. _To protect me?_

            The fire crackled loudly, then puffed out a large, swirling array of smoke twice. Uirien smiled as she continued to warm the blade. The boots of the Unburnt shifted against the cold stone.

 

            “It will not be long, now.” Uirien said softly, her small lips curving into a smile. Her eyes flickered up to where the Unburnt stood, her smile dashing itself into the fire. “Go and see that our Lord is greeted properly.” The red-haired woman and her brother bowed curtly before disappearing into the darkness of the cavern.

 

            Zerith could not stifle a moan as her pains worsened. _What did they do to me?_ She wondered, but the pain blurring across her skin. _A broken leg. A bruised head, perhaps concussed. Scrapes and bruises, of course. Something with my abdomen, and..._

 

            She paused and shifted her good leg ever so slightly. An aching, cramping pain renewed itself in her lower stomach, familiar yet far away, and deeper than it should have been. Echoing within her, and whispering across her insides. It was _there_ , thundering. A promise what should have been, and what now never could be. It had smoothed her ridged insides and ravaged them. It took away that _hope_ of something new. Perhaps she never wanted it at all, but the pain sunk _deeper--_

 

            _No,_ Zerith denied. _They couldn’t have --_ But they did, and the pain was unmistakable. She had never experienced it before but the way it twisted her heart confirmed her fears. _But why?... In the mud and dirt and blood...in the darkness...next to..._

_No,_ her hands pushed against the stone feebly. _I cannot cry now. It hurts so much. I just can’t..._

She remembered, with clarity, how Hassun beckoned her in her vision when Gostir had taken her to the Withered Heath.

 

            _Is this what you want?_ He had asked her. She had never quite understood his question’s meaning, but did _now,_ as her body shook with pain and anger and fear.

 

            _Is this what you want?_ She imagined him saying it to her, his voice warm and inviting, yet holding back from showing what he really wanted her to say. He had wanted the truth from her, and would have never pressed her for anything but the purest form of it. Yet, deeply within her, she knew how much he had wanted her to say _yes._

 

            It was but a dream, a possibility of what could have been. She had denied that life. She had denied running away with him after he had nearly killed himself trying to reach her. She denied his affections several times after she awoke in the Tarakona encampment.

 

            _She_ had denied it.

 

            But now the choice had been made before her, or rather, not granted at all.

 

            Zerith had loved Hassun, and she would have loved that choice, and whatever it could have brought for them. It was gone, however, and lost amongst the cold of the North. And her own choice was lying in the mud next to her beloved horse’s corpse.

 

            _Oh, Applegrabber._ The pain swelled within her aching heart. _I’ve been such a fool for all of this. This is the life I have earned for myself, and for you, though you did not deserve it, my friend._

            _I’ve loved so much, yet been so afraid to show it. My parents, Gandalf, Applegrabber, Hassun, Mhafi, Eska, myself, and even Gostir. Everyone has shaped my life somehow and what have I done to prove I am worthy of such lessons? I’ve gotten myself killed._ She looked towards the knife again. As much as she told herself not to stare at it, her eyes could not peel themselves away.

 

            She heard rough footsteps approaching from behind, and just before they reached her, they stopped.

 

            “Good,” Uirien hissed as she looked over Zerith’s head. “He is here. I have been waiting for this moment.”

 

            Darkness enveloped Zerith’s vision swiftly, a rough sack thrown over her head and tightened upon her neck. She could feel her steamy breath bouncing across it and warming her face. Though the light of the fire had disappeared, she could feel its comforting presence. If she could have moved, she imagined leaping into the fire and curling up as small as she could, no matter how much it singed her skin.

 

            Slow, methodical footsteps glided across the stone. The fabrics of a soft robe gently swished as the figure walked, crossing from where Zerith guessed the cavern’s entrance was to where Uirien stood. The hairs on the back of Zerith’s neck stood on end.

 

_Who is he?_

“My master,” Uirien greeted the figure, her skirts swishing as she bent her knees and knelt upon the floor. A long moment of silence passed as they waited for a response.

 

“This is the one?” The figure -- a rough, old voice hewn by age and wisdom -- sneered, his sleeve lightly flapping in the air as he gestured to where Zerith lay. “It has been long since we have last spoken of her, Uirien. She is still a girl.” He scoffed. “It should make this matter rather trivial as she -- if your _fools_ allowed her to even attempt -- could hardly put up any resistance.”

 

“She is young and feeble still, it is true.” Uirien agreed, choosing her words carefully in her smooth, low voice. “Yet the dragon lies within her, and we know how well it burns.”

 

“It will belong to the Dark Lord soon, and dragonfire burns Men just as well as it burns Orc-flesh.” The man spat.

 

_I know this one’s voice._ Zerith realized, remembering the cottage at the Angle which she’d shared with Gandalf, and the nightmares that had plagued her when she was a growing girl. _Uirien and this man were the ones speaking in my nightmares! They had been planning this for years. I wonder, did they somehow know at my birth that I would carry a dragon within me?_

“I have already prepared it for you. You should find it cuts cleanly, by your will.” Uirien stumbled on her words, but they still brought fear back into Zerith’s weakening willpower.

 

Zerith called for Gostir once more, but when she did so, she felt a coldness creep upon her. She was paralyzed in fear, yet unable to draw away from the dark energy stirring. She could find no trace of Gostir’s warmth within her -- though she knew it was still _there_ , waiting for her to unleash! Gostir had been there for her, once, filling the void that she now felt within her heart. She could touch upon her heart and feel the warmth as though he had once lain there, but no longer. Tethered to her, yet too far away to reach.

 

_Why? Why abandon me now, if you chose to do so?_

 

_I won’t cry._ She told herself. She repeated the words until she forgot she was saying them, and the fear crept back in.

 

The weapon was exchanged, and she took the last remaining strength she had in her body to attempt to free herself. It was nothing more than a slight shift, for none of her captors moved to strike her. They did not need to waste their time.

 

_I am alone,_ Zerith told herself. _I have not truly been alone for a very long time._

_What will happen when I die?_ Zerith questioned, her heart sobering as she ceased her fighting. _Will I die or become something else?_

_Who will I be if I live and Gostir does not remain?_

_Who will I be if I live?_

_Will I live, or simply exist?_

One of the Unburnt behind her grabbed her shoulders and held her body up, resting her back upon their knees and forcing her body to flatten. Uirien opened the jar, its compression hissing slightly as the metal top loosened.

 

_Father, I failed you. I took up your sword and shield, made them my own. Ultimately, it was in vain._

_Mother and uncle, you gave up your life for nothing. What reward can be found in a dead child? I am the reason you died. I did not strike you, yet I killed you._

 

            _To the Unburnt, you are not unburnt and broken. I wish I never would have burned you. It was a cruel and terrible thing to and I will forever regret it. But cruelty cannot make up for cruelty. I may die, but I will remain seeped within the lives I touched and the things I have done._

_Gandalf, I wish you could have seen me before the end. I hope you’d be proud. I know you’d be angry. It is your nature to withhold praise -- but there is that smile that has always told me I’m enough. You saved me -- but not from myself. I hope you can do the same with the Free Peoples._

_Hassun, I should have told you how I truly felt. I could have still walked away, but perhaps the regret would have been lessened by my honesty. If I had stayed in the North, perhaps the Unburnt would have come and found me. At least you are not here to have gotten yourself killed trying to protect me. I loved you, and for that, I failed you. Yet there can be no world imaginable that I could not love you. I should have let you take me away. Danger would have followed, but we would have had each other._

_Mhafi, you became part of my strength. I had once thought dwarves to be as cold as the jewels they cherish; you proved me wrong. I wish I could go to the Iron Hills and show the guards that coin that you bestowed me. Perhaps if my body should float upon the river, a passerby shall find the coin and find you. And then you will know. You will not understand. How could you, when you supported me so that I could have feigned infallibility? But you will know, and wonder no longer what became of me._

_Applegrabber, there could be no better horse than once with your unwavering loyalty. You deserve to be buried on a hill beneath the shade of an apple tree, where they could all fall and just be yours._

           

            _Gostir, wherever you are; you deserved better. I failed you and perhaps you failed me. We failed each other, yet we were the only people we could truly rely on. You’ve saved my life, yet I could not save you. I wish I could have --_

The dagger pierced her heart, surging through her flesh and burying itself within her. _He_ came racing back, and she felt the fire on her cheek. It was there, burning, yet no one in the room seemed to feel it. Didn’t they _see?_ Her fire would burn them all, and there would be nothing left.

 

            She screamed, and she heard him _roar_ , and it was then that her cry mixed with his silvered shout. It was all she could hear. Not the laughter or how her heart’s beat faltered, the dagger’s ebony sheen running crimson. Just him, and she no longer felt alone. The fire rose higher still.

 

            _When the soul is taken, does the being remain?_

_I am me, and I am here. I am not him. Yet we are close._

She saw the silver and the gold and the red. The water lay upon her cheeks. She was flying, then, skimming the water as it misted in her eyes. A thousand thousand people rose up, and she cried beneath the temple’s skylight. Her love crashed upon her in waves. She felt soft caressing hands, and the void was filled. She would not be a mother, but she would _be._ She looked beyond the prow and felt _hope._

 

            _There is hope in death._

            Zerith was afraid, as much as it was inevitable. She did not want to go. She could not let all of _them_ go.

 

            But it was time to go. She was somewhere else now. Not quite there in her body, as much as part of her could not leave it.

 

            _Is this...it?_

She could still feel the pain. Echoing out from her heart, and her _heart_ of hearts, it was calling for her action. Her scream had died off as her breath stilled, but she still heard _his_ scream. It was the most heart-breaking sound she had ever heard; a wounded animal’s cry mixed with a man’s despair at losing everything he held dear.

 

            _And that is who we have become, is it not? Animals, men, half-bred things which the world has deemed to be a ‘pariah’. We have saved many -- and could save so many more -- but it is lost._

 

            Her hearing began to roar, and she heard _swirling_ travelling from within her. It was nearly inaudible with _his_ screaming, but it commanded her body and resonated through her as though it were her own voice vibrating in her head.

 

            _I’m sorry._ She called out, though it was lost in the swirling haze flowing out of her just as her blood escaped around the dagger embedded in her chest.

 

            It didn’t hurt anymore, she realized, as her body slid onto the cold ground. She could not feel her broken leg as it hit the stone, nor the searing pressure and ache in her stomach, or the pounding of her head. It was oddly...numb. She wanted to cry out in fear -- for she still was _alive_ enough to fear the end -- but Zerith began to lose the will to feel anxious. There was no point, was there?

           

            She wondered where her body would end up. It didn’t matter, Zerith guessed. They got what they wanted, and they no longer required the flesh. It would rot, and no one would ever know. They would wonder, perhaps -- but what use were bones? Time would pass on and she could not remain.

 

            _There is so much left that I wanted to do and see,_ Zerith said.

 

            The dagger was pulled out roughly from her chest, a boot pressing down on her sternum as it was removed. The jar’s top was sealed shut with a _hiss_ , and she no longer heard the dragon’s roar, nor could she feel his heat. She -- her body -- was growing cold.

 

            The sack over her head as well as her gag were removed. Even still illuminated by the fire’s light, her eyes no longer opened. There was nothing more in the darkness for her to see.

 

            Then there was nothing more at all.

 

-o-

 

Across the sea, a voice spoke softly:

 

“These are strange times that the Free Peoples find themselves in. It is a time in which ‘Free’ is questioned. Can they be free? Dangling perilously between the Valar and the forces of the Dark Lord, the time is drawing near.

 

Ah, the girl. Another thread cut from the fabric of fate. Yet...a fiber remains. There is something there -- not the dragon, it has been drawn out -- but _something._ It is not my place to wonder about the lives of the mostly-dead. Does it matter, however? If existence lies under life, then what is life itself for someone who has lost everything, and has found themselves alone?

 

 

            The dragon reemerged. The Tarakona woman did not. A Gondorian woman took her place. There is a pattern here. Should the Gondorian return, and the dragon die? Impossible. The dragon is still waiting for its trial. She is the only vessel which could hold him unless the seal is broken.

 

            A vessel, and nothing more. A pariah, and nothing less. Loved and unloved, gone and present, cold and warm. What is its purpose?

 

            Its father a wild man of the woods and mountains. Its mother a Gondorian noble. Both died for love, and one for nothing. If a sacrifice saves a life only to later have an affect so powerful that it leads to death, how much ‘good’ can it hold? The mortals cannot comprehend this. They choose and then the time of choosing is gone. They think, “This one or that one?” yet it cannot be so simple. Every choice has a ripple, and a choice that one has not chosen. A lack of consent, if you will.

 

            Our beloved Istari Wizard. He has hidden his true intentions regarding the girl from us. One of our greater beloveds might be able to guess --- but beneath his hat, how can one be certain? It could not learn enough from him before his departure -- but it had learned _enough._

_Enough_ , yet not quite so. Though its voice may have echoed across the lake, it will be forgotten by better numbers. What is one memory among many if it blends together?

 

            The dwarf knew more than he could say. He felt more than he could admit. _Fear_. It is a common feeling, especially amongst those it came across. The dwarf would never tell it that, and for that, it failed. When it comes and asks, “How may I be seen in a better light?”, it is cast further into the darkness; most good-meaning ones do this unintentionally. He lied to it, and it could not see until it met its end. The coin, it still has, but it is one among many, and none could recognize it. The dwarf would do well to not speak of matters regarding a girl and a dragon. He has two choices: spread the girl’s tale and risk spreading his own hidden, subverted feelings, or produce some rumblings of it and bury it amongst the coals. Indeed, the dwarf will take the second, but he will not forget it even as it lies dead. No one will know, and thus no one will care. And the fire shall fade.

 

            The Tarakona man, a fool. That is not an assumption or an observation, but an inborn fact. The heart tells tales of doom, and he followed it. In the end, they both lost, though he may never know its true end. The man followed a path until it split, one towards the North, and the other towards it. He chose to walk in the middle, occasionally straying too far upon a barrier and tearing his flesh. Is he a Tarakona, or is he its unrequited lover? If one attempts to be both, and such characteristics cannot be held simultaneously, then does the one become nothing? There was a determined nothingness to his actions. When he began the walk down the road, he knew not where it would lead, but the trials he would face along it. And when he arrived at the destination, it was a waste. No one will believe the former man of stone who now wears his heart as his armor. He shall fade along the line of sorrow. And the warmth shall fade.

 

            There is a snake in the North, even in the frozen wasteland. It was not realized until it was too late, but the snake did not strike. She begged the man, but his arms were too sore to be raised. She went to the prophecy-stone where _it_ would most certainly have to go, but the dwarf was there. And the Mother called her off. The snake shall not lose its fangs with time, though, and she will remain unburnt. Even the cold shall fade.

           

            Yes, I remember now. The book about the dragons, just before our Istari discovered it. It claimed the dragon was a menace. It dared to say that the men struck it down. But the dragon was fleeing, not from the fire that he had sparked, but of how much it meant to him. His death was powerful, though he was not powerless. And it was this defiance which sealed the connection that shall breach the war. He was bound to evil, but it broke. It was a choice of inaction. And I do believe...it is the final piece...”

 

-o-

 

            Zerith awoke with a scream upon the cold earth. It was cold, deathly cold, as her limbs splayed out. She gasped for air, clutching her chest. She opened her eyes up towards the pale blue cloudless sky, lying flat on her back as a flurry of snow passed above her with the wind. She wore a tan fur parka, its softness gliding across her fingertips as she gently roamed across her body. Something was...wrong. _She_ was wrong.

 

            Slowly, she sat up. Her head spun slightly, but she blinked, and the feeling was gone. She sat on the frozen, hard-packed ground of the North, with the cool sheen of the Grey Mountains beaming down at her. She followed the mountains’ sight to her own body. The front of her parka was covered in blood and dirt. Her hand quickly found its spot towards her heart, where blood had crusted around a large, black hole. Tentatively, her fingers probed it, trying to test for any pain or feeling.

 

            There was nothing. She tried to look under the parka towards her breast, but it was glued to her sweaty form. And, deep down, she was afraid of what she would find.

 

            Something else was wrong, somewhere else. Zerith tried to count just how many things felt _wrong_.

 

            “Okay,” She began in a whisper. Her throat was raw and sore, and she was barely able to speak. It felt like she had screamed for an eternity. “I’m in the North. That’s one. I’m covered in blood and dirt. Two. There is something missing where my heart should be. Three. Four, my... _it_ feels so distant and empty, like it could never hold anything. Someone has stolen from it. Five, my head feels funny. Six, I feel...alone. It’s too quiet in me. I’m cold and scared and I know I should feel something else. There’s something I am missing.”

 

            Zerith slowly rose to her feet, exhaustion flooding into her limbs immediately. She felt as though she had laid in her bed for a thousand years, before deciding to awaken in the North. Her fingers were numb as they pressed against the ground’s surface, her knuckles raw and cracked as the chilling wind blew upon them.

 

            She looked forward and could see nothing in the grey haze. She turned towards the mountains, and only they answered back. Zerith turned completely around and saw more of the empty nothingness. And more of nothing, until she was back where she started.

 

            “Hello?” Zerith tried to call out, but her voice was too hoarse. It came out with a broken squeak.

 

            She began to walk, hoping that eventually she would come across _something_ to tell her more about how she had gotten there.

 

            “I don’t remember much,” She whispered to herself, “as it is even more hazy as these lands are. I can’t even think about anything but this parka, and the cold, and this ground. Who am I? I can’t...”

 

            Zerith sucked in a breath and began to call out for help again as loud as she could. If her voice would eventually give out, she still had her legs. Hours seemed to pass, but the light never changed. Somewhere far above, the sun glowed white, its light radiating out into the silvery sky.

 

            There was a faint sound in the distance, and she stopped so that she could listen more closely. It was a soft tinkling sound of metal, and it was not alone. There were more approaching her, albeit slowly. As she strained her eyes, she could see a caravan of figures slowly heading east. Knowing her voice would be inaudible with the wind, she raised her legs to run, but she could not move. Walking seemed fine, but she worried that she would never reach them. With each stride, Zerith tried to widen the gap between her legs, but an invisible barrier whipped her back into a walking pace.

 

            As she gained on the group, she noticed they were wearing similar outfits to hers. They were dirty like she was, and their slow, dragging steps reflected their weariness. It was a group of Northerners, travelling away from their prior destination. Warriors with spears and shields flanked the group from all sides as they trudged upon the hard earth. In the middle of group, children led horses carrying elders and the sick.

 

            The group stopped for a moment, and Zerith moved towards the front. A tall, thin man with a familiar shining brown gaze stood next to a hunched old woman, her hair long and turning to snow. Their faces were intricately carved with wrinkles and frowns, and the shine of their eyes hinted at the air of sorrow flowing between each member of the group. The old woman looked towards where Zerith stood, her eyes wide. She stepped back, startled, and clutched the man’s arm, gesturing towards Zerith with a shaking hand.

 

            “Hello,” Zerith rasped at the old woman. “Please, help me. I mean you no harm. I’ve been hurt...someone has hurt me. I don’t remember anything...or how I’ve arrived here. I need help.” The woman’s expression softened, but she cast her eyes away.

 

            “Just a trick of the mind, Clan-Mother.” The man said, and Zerith began to cry.

 

            “Please!” She shouted at them, but the figures looked back towards the path in which they had been taking. “Help me! I’ve lost something...and someone...” Her voice was lost to her sobs as she shook, her stomach aching with each forced movement as she collapsed to her knees.

 

            Snow began to fall from the sky. One flake, then ten, until a snowstorm raged. The sky turned to white, and soon even the ground was covered. The Tarakona seemed to be enraptured with the sudden turn in weather, still standing rooted to the ground as they looked towards the mountains. A crown of white began to shape itself on Zerith’s dark hair, her sorrow-laced voice lost in the whipping wind. The cold air seemed to choke every ounce of happiness out of her -- if any happiness could have remained from whatever had happened to her previously.

 

            A roar shook the ground beneath her, rolling off the mountains in thunderous waves. Zerith looked up, hearing the frightened gasps of the wanderers and the anxious clank of the warriors’ spears against their shields. The sound pierced the air again, and it was a wretched cry splitting the clouds of snow. Zerith’s eyes were glued to the outline of the mountaintops, watching, wondering, and waiting. It sounded so _familiar_. She should have known it, shouldn’t she?

 

            A grey cloud moved across the sky above the peaks towards where she knelt on the ground. For a moment, Zerith thought it strange that there should be such a dark cloud in a snowstorm; as it moved, however, the clouds parted allowing some of the sun’s light to pierce through. No longer did she see only a blurred, soft edge, but the sharp silhouette of _wings_. With each flap, she heard a rustle in the wind, though it was as soft as her breath. She could not see the beast’s head until it parted through the fog, but soon its pointed visage and body pierced the sky.

 

            A million diamonds shone with the sun’s light, hanging from the clouds. Or was it silver swords, pointed like armor? It was too far high for Zerith to tell. Just as she heard screams and shouts, she shakily rose to her feet with a small smile. The flying figure was fast approaching where they stood, gliding softly along the air with a determined nature. Though it lingered higher than a distance in which her eyes could properly describe it, she marveled at the shape of its powerful, muscular body, and long pointed tail. It was sleek and yet titanic -- beautiful and cruel and deadly -- and she could not imagine ever being more enthralled.

 

            The warriors raised their shields, though they would have been defenseless regardless, but it passed over the group, blocking the sun and plunging them into shadow. A baby’s fearful cry cut through the petrifying silence.

 

            Then the silvered serpent turned his head, looking past the group and back towards the mountains, before dipping down in the air and then raising itself in the air with a quick flap of its wings. It turned back to fly over them again, back towards the mountains from whence it came. Zerith’s eyes followed where it had looked -- towards the trail the nomadic people had left. Slowly, a lone figure emerged from the fog. They were heavily armed and bundled in furs as they dragged themselves through their kin’s steps.

 

            The dragon doubled back, skimming the mountains as the figure approached.

 

            “We cannot escape our fate,” Zerith heard the old woman mutter, but she did not turn to look at her horrified expression.

 

            Zerith looked back at the figure to see that its curvature was that of a woman. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed, her skin tanned. Her face, though it must have been beautiful, was covered in dirt and blood, as well as her leathered armor and fur cloak. Her eyes were glued to the ground, a permanently unhappy look scarred across her face.

 

            The dragon returned, sinking quickly against the ground until it landed with the quaking of the earth beneath her feet. A few lengths away from the group, it was _massive,_ blocking out any sight of the mountains with a stretch of its wings, like the sails of a giant sky-ship. The warriors moved from their places at the group’s flank to stand in a phalanx before the beast. With a turn of his head, the dragon looked back towards the approaching woman, making a strangely sad noise as she looked up at him. Taking a few tentative steps, Zerith approached the beast.

           

            She saw that she had been both right and wrong as to its appearance. Its scales may have glistened like diamonds along its head, chest, and legs, but its back was lined in jagged sword-like spikes covering itself like armor, leading down along its tail until it ended in a menacingly-speared club at the end. The beast’s armor was a thing to behold, especially in its size as it craned its neck towards the sky. She followed its neck but could not see the beginning of its head as it rumbled softly. Its spotted wings were leathered yet lightly scaled, unable to offer the same protection that the rest of its body did. Most enthralling, however, was its ruby-colored eyes, which seemed to see right through her soul as it gave her figure a passing glance to regard the large group of people, who had begun to cower. Even the warriors could not match the dragon’s size, and they seemed to recognize it as they shuffled nervously in their places.

 

            “I have come,” The woman called out as she walked between her kin and the dragon, “to make up for my mistakes.”

 

            “ _Gods_ , Satherra,” The older man at the front of the group whispered. Zerith whipped her head to where he stood at the mention of a _name_ , and she could then understand the resemblance. _A father, and his lost daughter._ The woman -- Satherra -- stood in front of the phalanx of warriors, her eyes flickering between each of their faces.

 

            “I have come to right my wrongs. I have awoken the dragon’s rage. I _became_ it. Everything that he could have given us, I have ruined. And I alone have ruined _us_. Only death may pay for life now.” Satherra called out, before she turned to look up at the dragon.

 

            Something shifted in the air, passing between the two of them, but Zerith could not place the feeling. She had felt it before, and she remembered it had been more painful than nearly anything she could have imagined. The feeling was beginning to return to her, as she felt something strange hammer where her heart should have been.

 

            “You did not ruin them, Satherra.” The dragon spoke, though his mouth did not open. His voice was soft -- soft and almost intimate like there were no other people but the two of them.

 

            “I allowed you in,” Satherra replied shakily, “and you stayed for too long.”

 

            “I will not disagree. Perhaps I should not have come at all.”

 

            “Perhaps you shouldn’t have.”

 

            “But,” The dragon sighed deeply, nostrils flaring as Satherra’s dark hair ruffled with his winds, “I would not have met you, and I would have not known anything beyond the Dark Lord’s hold. For that, I do not regret it.”

 

            “You always used to chide me for being foolishly stubborn,” Satherra sneered, “and yet here you are, steadfast in your acceptance of doom. Are you eager to understand mortality?”

 

            “Do not mistake me, Satherra,” The dragon said with more bite, “for I wish nothing upon myself but truth and justice -- and you cannot wield it no matter what you believe. None can, little one, except perhaps the Valar.”

 

            “I would be far more merciful than they could ever be to you,” Satherra snapped.

 

            “Mercy lies in your eyes no longer, little one, nor does love. Perhaps they were illusions.”

 

            “I shall show you my _mercy_ ,” Satherra hissed, reaching for her belt and unsheathing a curved dagger, shining like obsidian in the white light. Zerith’s chest ached as she looked upon its deadly edge. The dragon watched yet did not move. Zerith drew closer to him, and she imagined that she could feel his heat, searing her even from a few feet away. But she could only feel the cold.

 

            “I failed you,” He said, sweeping his great red eye then across the group of people, who had all focused their attention upon the scene unfolding, “and all of you.”

 

            “There is nothing more that is left to be said,” Satherra said softly, holding the dagger delicately between her fingers as though it were light as a feather. The dragon turned toward her, shaking its head in sadness before lowering it to the ground and closing its eyes. She placed a hand hesitantly upon the crest of his nose. For a moment she looked down at him, eyebrows furrowed as her mind looked like it was racing -- trying to _choose_. Conflict lingered in Satherra’s eyes as she looked upon his silver form. She took a deep, shaky breath in, and exhaled as she decided what she was going to do.

 

            Satherra moved around his great head, past his neck and towards his body. The dragon lay still, its wings fanning out for many lengths beside it. She stopped before his chest and looked up past his neck as though she second-guessed herself. But she shook her head with a choking breath, bending down until her head was below the dragon’s collarbone.

 

“We will be together again in a happier time,” Satherra looked over to him, “someday, in another life.”

 

“We will,” The dragon agreed, opening one great red eye and looked back at her with his slitted pupil, “and I shall not fail you again.”

 

“Nor will I,” Satherra replied with a choked sob. She wiped at her eyes before her kin could see, turning back to his body. Zerith looked over her shoulder to see what she was looking for.

His armor shone like a silver knight’s, anointed with chainmail scales shining like jewels upon his breast. But there was something else there, a flaw in his armor. An infinitesimal spot where diamonds did not dance, and there was only thin skin. Satherra saw it too, and Zerith tried to run towards her to stop her from raising the dagger, diving where she crouched.

 

But Zerith’s body went right through hers as Satherra buried the dagger in that spot, driving it deep as the dragon roared. Zerith stared up in horror, her body shaking with the pain and sorrow laced within the dragon’s cry. Blood sprayed from his heart, through Zerith and towards where Satherra knelt, beginning to cry silently.

 

Zerith felt paralyzed, but Satherra wrenched her dagger out from its spot, and the dragon let out a piercing shriek that seemed to move the very mountains. Satherra dropped the dagger as she moved, collapsing against the dragon’s scaled neck and stroking below his eye as she buried her head into his body.

 

Zerith could only hear the wind, the dragon’s labored breaths, and Satherra’s soft sobbing. The wind ceased first. And then, after what seemed like an eternity, the dragon fell silent.

 

Satherra began to choke on her tears as the dragon’s life withered away. She pressed into him for a moment -- and then her crying ceased. She began to writhe in pain, whipping her head back and clutching her chest, her legs splaying out as she turned to rest her back upon the dragon’s neck. Her eyes were tightly closed shut as she fought an invisible battle.

 

“Satherra!” Zerith heard her father cry out, and she turned to watch the old woman grab his arm just before he ran towards the dragon’s corpse.

 

When Zerith looked back again, Satherra had stopped moving. Her legs and arms were splayed out, neck propped up against the dragon and head bobbing down. Her face was relaxed -- more relaxed than she seemed to have ever been. Her eyes were shut, and no movement came from them. Zerith held her breath, and there was no sound.

 

Wrenching out of the old woman’s grasp, Satherra’s father raced over to where his daughter’s body lay, hesitating only for a moment as he neared the dragon’s great head before he took her into his arms. He shook her lightly, yelling her name pleadingly. He raised two fingers to her neck and shook his head.

 

“My daughter is gone,” She heard him say in a broken voice. Slowly, he stood and turned to the old woman, tears streaming down his face.

 

“Leave her,” The old woman called in response, and Zerith heard some gasps.

 

“Leave her?” He questioned with a stutter, blinking back tears as his jaw squared.

 

“She is in the past with the dragon, and we do not have the space to carry a body.”

 

He blinked in confusion as he stared at the old woman, unable to process what she had said. He looked across his people and at his warriors, strained and exhausted as their arms shook, and then one more back to where his daughter lay. He bent to pick up the dagger, cleaning it with the thin layer of snow that had begun to form. Then he shook his head, and slowly rejoined the old woman’s side. With a wave of his hand and a shout from across the group, they began to move.

 

Zerith lay next to the dragon’s broken heartscale, trembling as she watched their departure. She shakily rose to her feet, gazing once more up at the dragon’s corpse, and how his scales shone beautifully in the waning sunlight despite his chill. With a tremor of her hand, she rose it slowly towards the smooth, glassy sheen of the scales upon his shoulder.

 

_If I could only touch you, perhaps I could remember you and your warmth. And I could remember me._

 

Her hand passed through his flesh as though he were only a trick of the light. She drew it back with a disgusted scoff. Her anger and frustration rose, but the crimson glimmer near his heartscale caught her eye, and she stared at it, resting her hand upon her own broken heart.

 

“This is what you meant to show to me,” Zerith whispered as she looked towards the dragon’s head and where Satherra lay. If she had the heart to imagine, she would have thought they were sleeping peacefully on a warm summer day, in the shadow of the mountain.

 

She spared a glance towards where the great group of people stood just a moment ago, but they were gone. Zerith could not see any figures in the fog. When she looked back towards the dragon and the woman at his side, there was nothing there. Zerith stood, looking only at the mountains, and she felt nothing. An uneasy peace had buried itself within her, though she felt as though it was forced.

 

There came a great rumbling sound to her left, rushing quickly to where she stood. Zerith slowly turned her head and saw a black cloud racing across the ground and enveloping the sky, fast approaching her lonely figure. Her heart leaped out of her chest, and she tried to turn quickly and run from it. But the running would not come. Her legs felt tied together, only able to bend and extend into a stiff walk.

 

She walked and remembered _his_ name.

 

“Gostir,” She whispered in a small cry.

 

She remembered her heart, and his. She felt the dagger plunging into it repeatedly, but she did not scream. The cloud rushed behind her.

 

She remembered everyone she had lost and all that would lose her. And no one could ever truly know the truth. Her legs screamed in protest of her movements.

 

She remembered that place within her that once longed to belong. She remembered her womb, the slickness of her legs, and the choice that was taken from her. She remembered Hassun, and Applegrabber, and Mhafi and everyone who loved her and was loved by her.

 

She remembered her flames, but even as she opened her mouth, nothing came out. Her leg reminded her that it had been broken, and she fell to the ground as the darkness rushed around her, billowing like ink dripped on parchment.

 

“Is this what you want?” A thousand voices in the darkness behind her asked. She didn’t know what they meant, but she knew what she meant.

 

“No,” Zerith spat out, “this is not what I want at all.”

 

And the darkness closed in, until she forgot about the pain and all she had seen. But she could never forget herself.

 

-o-

 

“Are you so certain she is still there, Mithrandir? Word from such a faraway place travels slowly.” Radagast said as he stood upon the prow of Minas Tirith, looking towards the Grey Istari’s back who seemed lost in thought.

 

“I cannot hope to find her any place else, my friend.” Gandalf replied as he leaned on his staff, his pointed hat resting against a marble bench near the prow’s edge, “If she is not there, we shall still be ever closer.” He looked past the White City’s great walls towards the North, and towards where he hoped Zerith would still be.

 

“They said there is war in the North, but none have mentioned anything about fire,” Radagast lowered his voice, “or about dragons.”

 

“If the woman I know is wise,” Gandalf replied, turning back to the Brown Wizard, “she would not dare to speak her fire, for the Northmen know it too intimately.”

 

“She should not be there at all,” Radagast said, though too quickly. Gandalf raised an eyebrow at him, and the Brown Wizard’s face flushed slightly. “I don’t claim to know her, of course. I know only what you have told me. She is young, of course, and not in her wisdom’s prime. But a woman warrior -- especially with none too pleasant history in the North -- is hardly inconspicuous, is she not?”

 

“You are certainly right, my friend.” The Grey Wizard sighed with a light shake of his head. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened.

 

“Ah, come now, Mithrandir.” Radagast drew closer to his fellow Istari, resting a hand upon the taller Maiar’s shoulder, “you should not blame yourself. This woman was bound to do things out of your control and go places that hold far more danger than she could ever understand. A dragon’s nature is ambition, as you well remember from our dealings at the Lonely Mountain. It seems like it happened only yesterday, does it not?”

 

Gandalf nodded, glancing down for a moment. “She would not have gone to the North had I not fled in pursuit of the elven woman and her flighty, unknown master. Just as I thought I could return to her, Zerith disappeared. She is a curious young woman,” He said, the ghost of a smile blooming on his face. A piece of paper drifted in the wind, and he reached up just in time to catch it. It said ‘Home for sale’, and though the words meant nothing to the Istari, he crumpled it in his hand hoping to forget its memory.

 

“You are too morose for an Istari!” Radagast cried. “If you should seek her out, you should go before you even dare to think about the decision. I shall offer you my companionship through the Emyn Muil for a short while before returning to my home. An Istari alone is a troublesome thing, especially during times of turmoil, Mithrandir.”

 

“I would appreciate your continued company, as there are many things I should like to discuss with you,” Gandalf nodded, his cloudy eyes brightening as he smiled.

 

The sun set and rose in Minas Tirith, and the two Istari left atop their mounts just before dawn, and before anyone should think to speak suspicion of them. A light rain had begun to fall in the morning as they travelled through Anórien, polluting the air with a sticky humidity.

 

The more that they drew distant from Minas Tirith, the more Gandalf began to _worry_. Minas Tirith, as far removed as it is from the North, is a steady source of information and the whereabouts of many people. More importantly, he knew it had been Zerith’s home. He had inquired about where her mother lived, finding out that Faendes and Zerith’s uncle had died just shortly prior to his arrival. Some sort of chaos had enveloped the city in the time surrounding their deaths, and it took a week for the guards to calm the people and restore order. It had been caused by a group of bandits, as one of the guards had told him. They had also caused the deaths of Zerith’s remaining family members -- though it was an ‘accident’.

 

Of Zerith he had heard little mention, except that on the day the chaos began, a dark-haired woman entered the city with a swarthy man and a fiendishly hungered horse. She visited a dark house and the man had gone to a tavern. A few hours passed, and the uproar began, caused by an explosion and men fighting at the city’s entrance. Zerith and the man left together hastily on her horse, heading North, with Zerith looking disturbed and dirty. After that, nothing. Perhaps he could visit Dale or Lake-Town before daring to venture further North. If there was truly a war raging and Zerith was swept up in it, Gandalf did not feel it wise to rush in. She had travelled a long distance for a good reason, he knew. He had faith that though she sometimes acted foolishly, she was not completely ignorant to the incredible danger she was in.

 

There was bitterness in the air as Gandalf and Radagast rode, drenched in the Grey Wizard’s regret. To have lost him, as well as her mother and uncle, in such a short period of time must have been difficult to bear. To have felt _lonely_ , as she often confided to him as a child, was one of her greatest fears. Zerith could be alone -- but she never wanted it to be a burden upon her. Even with the dragon’s warmth, she had thought it prudent and comforting to have kept some companionship.

 

Gandalf had failed in protecting her and teaching her the ways of the world, as he had promised to her. Perhaps he should not have _promised_ at all. After all, he was an Istari. He had not been sent to protect her, but he did not see her as a burden when he first met her. In her deep blue tearful gaze, he could only see a frightened child, never the dragon. As she grew and realized herself, he could see the fire. Still, it was nothing like the dragon’s fire he remembered with Smaug.

 

It had been a purer, though hotter, fire. Untamed yet almost realized. She had not truly met the dragon within her until Uirien, though to what extent he could not discern. He had not known her after meeting Gostir. Perhaps, Gandalf worried, Zerith had become a completely different person entirely. He would not blame her if she resented him, as she had every right to do so. A promise had been broken and she had suffered. Whenever he should find her, however, Gandalf still hoped that she would be the Zerith he knew.

 

He wondered briefly about the man she had been with. Hopefully he had protected her as best as he could. He thought about the man’s vague description -- ‘swarthy’ pointed him to one of the tribes of the North, though why should he be so far south? And why had Zerith been accompanying him -- alone -- specifically?

 

As Gandalf and Radagast crossed the Anduin, careful to avoid the Nindalf and its maze of swampy streams, the Grey Wizard felt a cloud of oppression hovering over him. Perhaps it was the fact that the skies decided to torrentially downpour off and on for much of their travels, but he had grown rather pessimistic for a Wizard as they continued.

 

            “You are rarely so silent, Mithrandir,” Radagast called out early in the morning after they departed their camp and headed into the Emyn Muil. “You’ve always a tune to sing or hum, or a comment about how green the grass is. I can feel your thoughts slapping my shoulders!” He called out as Gandalf slowly followed behind on his mount.

 

            “It must not look favorably to have a Wizard worry,” Gandalf admitted, “but perhaps there is wisdom in my worrying. Should I feel more concerned if I do not worry?”

 

            “Perhaps you should rather not be concerned at all, my friend. You said that Minas Tirith was the last place Zerith was seen, and no one has such heard from her.”

 

            “ _That_ is a reason to be concerned.”

 

            “Is it? You wanted her to remain inconspicuous.”

 

            “I did,” he replied, “but it was a false hope.”

 

            “Cheer up, my friend!” Radagast exclaimed as he whistled to a bird above them. “Perhaps she’s decided on a life away from the troubles plaguing Middle Earth. Or, even more clever, a life away from you. Istari are rather queer, are we not?”

 

            “If she desired a quiet life, she would not have gone to the North. The Zerith I know would not even settle for _quiet_ at all.” He pulled the brim of his grey hat down further, exaggerating his sullen appearance.

 

            “I hear the North is beautiful. Icily cold, yet there is charm in it.”

 

            “The North is where Gostir and Satherra lived and died. Their memory still lingers there, and the tribes would not appreciate being reminded of them.”

 

            Radagast let out a loud sigh, rolling his shoulders. “Yes, I suppose you are right. With a war about, their eyes would be like a Great Eagle’s.”

 

            “Keener,” Gandalf mumbled, pulling his pipe from his saddlebag before lighting it and billowing smoke into the air.

 

            “Keener?” Radagast laughed, “Do not let Gwaihir hear those words. You speak of dragon-fire, I speak of _talons_.”

 

            The Emyn Muil was a treacherous series of cliffs and hills, weathered by time and rainy weather. It was a place in which the predator cornered its prey, so to speak. The clouds were shaded a deep grey as they entered, and Gandalf’s grip on his staff tightened. Glamdring was a comforting presence at his side, and he did not doubt his kin’s fortitude, but he knew well that there could be a thousand eyes watching them. And it certainly _felt_ like there were a thousand eyes watching them.

 

            “Perhaps we should have passed through Rohan, Lorien, and Mirkwood instead. It would have been a smoother trip.” Gandalf commented as his eyes scanned the cliffs for any sign of life among the crags.

 

            “I have a good feeling about this place!” Radagast cried, “I have often found that the places that Men avoid are sometimes the exact places they should think to go.”

 

            “I believe that Men would disagree with you,” Gandalf smiled.

 

            “Precisely! That is why we are here in their stead.”

 

            “While _I_ may not wholeheartedly disagree with you, another path might have been quicker -- and with far less muck, I might add.” Gandalf said lightly, glancing down at how his horse stirred the mud.

 

            “Ai!” The Brown Wizard exclaimed, halting his horse and leaning over its neck to peer down at the ground. Gandalf stopped at his side, looking down to see a few pairs of boot tracks going in the same direction, off to the left and up a steep, dark cliffside.

 

            “They all follow the same path, Mithrandir. They may lead us out of this maze,” Radagast suggested as he turned his head towards his companion, his brown eyes shining with excitement.

 

            “Or they may lead to a bandit camp, or a hoard of mountain-men.” Gandalf replied gruffly.

 

            “Shall we find out?”

 

            Gandalf gave a wordless nod, and they followed the tracks up a steeply winding mud-road. It was slow going, for in the shadow of the hills, they could hardly see a few lengths in front of them. Shadows blocked much of their path, and the Wizard worried that a creature might emerge from them. He had given up his pipe, choosing to rest his free hand close to Glamdring.

 

            “Say, my friend,” Radagast began, “once you finally do find Zerith, what shall you say to her?”

 

            Gandalf hummed, the corners of his mouth upturning as he imagined the young woman running up to him; hugging him, cursing him, perhaps even fighting him. He scrapped all of those ideas, knowing that the young Gondorian would choose a response perfectly unique to herself.

 

            “I do believe she shall have the first word.”

 

            “And what do you think that word will be?” Radagast chuckled.

 

            Just as Gandalf opened his mouth to speak, he smelled something strange, and halted his horse. Radagast looked behind, his eyebrows furrowing as he stopped his horse along the path.

 

            “Halt a moment,” Gandalf called, “Do you smell that?”

 

            Radagast took a few boisterous whiffs, and Gandalf did so albeit lightly. It smelled like burning flesh, charring and searing. There was a metallic edge to it, and something else Gandalf could not place.

 

            “Smells like someone’s cooking -- wait,” Radagast said, before hesitantly leaning down towards his mount’s neck and inhaling. “Someone is cooking horse-flesh...and... well, I can’t quite say--”

 

            “Dragon-fire,” Gandalf replied with wide eyes. The words slipped like water from his mouth. He hurried his horse on past Radagast’s look of confusion.

 

            “Now, now, Mithrandir,” Radagast called as he struggled to keep up with the Grey Wizard. “You must be mistaken. There are no Dragons around here!”

 

            “Not Dragons, but their _fire_ ,” Gandalf replied as he hurried to reach the top of the hill.

 

            “Perhaps your worries are really getting to you! I think-- oh,” Radagast began, before nearly colliding his horse into Gandalf’s at the top of the hill. Gandalf had stopped to stare at something a few measures away. Radagast was barely able to peer over the brim of the taller Wizard’s hat, but he saw something blackened and smoldering lying in the muddy clearing ahead of them. Gandalf dismounted slowly, his hand resting on Glamdring as he slowly approached. Radagast followed suit, and it was only as he was nearly upon it did he realize that it was the burning corpse of a horse, barely recognizable as it was covered in a mixture of blackened skin, blood, and dirty mud. He was glad to have a tight grip upon the reins of his mount, for the horse startled as soon as he saw the corpse. Gingerly, Gandalf bent down to touch the dead horse’s neck.

 

            “It is still warm,” He said softly. He moved away to the horse’s side, poking in the mud as he leaned heavily on his staff. Radagast watched over his shoulder as the Grey Wizard picked up a whitish piece of cloth which was heavily stained from the mud and horse blood.

 

            “Women’s linen,” Gandalf commented as he rubbed the cloth between his fingers.

 

            “How do you suppose that?” Radagast asked.

 

            “Because the dragon-fire came from a _woman_.”

 

            Gandalf rose to his feet quickly, looking up at the cliffs before he quickly led his horse to the cliffside, running his hands along the blackened rock as he searched for something. Then he paused and seemed to remember. The Grey Wizard looked down at the ground and spotted the same tracks they had been following, all leading to a heavy shadow a few leagues across from where the horse’s corpse lay. Next to some of the footsteps was a large, slinking impression cast into the mud. Radagast crouched to the ground, resting his hand upon the horse’s side and whispering to Yavanna.

 

When he looked up, the Grey Wizard’s robes had nearly completed faded into the shadow. He thought to call out, but the words caught in his mouth as he realized the gravity of what Gandalf seemed to see about the scene. Quickly returning to the Grey Wizard’s side, the two Istari stood at the small, nearly indiscernible entrance of a cave cutting into the cliffside in its shadow. Gandalf gestured silently down to the entrance’s right, where the footsteps of what must have been two men and a horse lay in the mud, quickly drying.

 

“I smell blood,” Radagast whispered. It was of a horse and of a person, he knew. And as he slowly looked up to meet the Grey Wizard’s eye, he knew too. “I’ll wait with the horses, I suppose. Call for me if need be.” Radagast reached into his horse’s saddlebag, finding a suitable torch and flint before striking it and igniting the cliffside in light when there once was darkness.

 

Gandalf handed him his horse’s reins without a second glance and took the torch, shining it against the entrance as he listened for any sounds coming from within. When he heard nothing, he thought it safe to proceed. He spared a glance to Radagast behind him, who was watching with wide eyes, and eventually Gandalf slipped from his site and into the cave.

 

The cave primarily consisted of hard, cutting blackish stone. He wondered what sort of creature would want to live in such an uncomfortable place. His boots splashed lightly as he walked, and as she held his torch lower to his body, there was crimson in the muddy pools dotting the cavern’s floor. He walked faster. The blood in his veins seemed to freeze over. A hard pit formed in his stomach, and he could not understand why. What was there for him to see -- or not see, in this cavern?

 

Eventually the cavern opened to near pitch-blackness. The only thing casting some sort of light was a smoldering brazier in the center of the cavern. The light burned his eyes for a moment, but Gandalf was eventually able to see _something_ lying on the ground next to it. His steps were slow and muffled as he approached.

 

First, he thought it was some sort of animal. Then, perhaps an orc. But he saw dark hair upon its head, and a slender body. It was adorned in furs, so a mountain-man like he had guessed, perhaps?

 

“No,” Gandalf whispered to himself as he stopped just before the body. It was, indeed, the shape of a dark-haired woman covered in mud and blood, face-down against the stone. “Valar, give me strength.” He lit the brazier with his torch, better illuminating the scene, before resting the torch at the brazier’s feet.

 

Then, with a free hand, he flipped the body over to its back. It was still warm, almost too hot.

 

A woman’s scarred face stared up at him with her closed lids, a soft, almost peaceful expression framing her face. He recognized the freckles dashed upon her nose and imagined he could count them and know their exact number. Long black hair was matted with blood, hiding some of the bruises and cuts on her forehead and around her lips. The indentation of something tight around her mouth had marred her skin in reddish-pink.

 

Gandalf looked past her mottled pink neck to her torn white tunic, its color almost completely disguised with blood. Then to her breast, her heart -- fresh dark blood disguising the large tear in the fabric there where she had been stabbed. He gingerly lifted the cloth there and confirmed that the weapon had been directed towards her heart, almost methodically. He was not convinced a mere bandit could display such artfulness (and they often chose to slit the throats of their victims rather than worry about the barrier of ribs and the sternum) but thought that he killer must have been someone with great knowledge in killing, or at least _trained_ by someone with knowledge about the darker forces that shaped the world.

 

Her pants barely clung to her form, and there was a strange stickiness dotting them. One of her legs bent at a strange angle, and as he straightened her body to make sense of what she had suffered, he realized that it had been broken. There was not much else to tell about what had been done to her, only that it had been hateful and without any care for her humanity.

 

Killing someone was not so difficult, Gandalf thought. There are many easy ways in which a person can die or be made to die. But to keep them alive after they have been brutalized and tortured -- there was a great sickness about whoever had harmed the woman. They had to have been organized, and it could have been planned ahead of time.

 

A silvery sheen caught his eye among the firelight, and he saw that a sword and shield were leaning against the cavern wall, along with a few tattered pieces of armor and other supplies. He picked up the torch and approached, and a dragon flashed in the light. Or, rather, its grey wing, painted onto the front of the shield. A sword lay amongst broken javelins and a dirtied spear-shaft, its tip lost. He picked up the sword, its guard anointed with feathers and its pommel a smooth moonstone. It seemed otherwise ordinary, but as he held it, he almost imagined that he could feel its history even with the sword in his grip.

 

He rummaged through the other items and found nothing else that seemed noteworthy, but one of the packs seemed familiar to him. Gandalf thought for a moment before putting the pieces together and lamenting his memory. The pack had sat at the foot of her bed in the cottage all those years ago. It had somehow travelled here, to a lonely cavern in the midst of treacherous cliffs.

 

Gandalf looked back at the body, still lying there in the firelight. He looked back at the winged shield and the other items. He did not want it all to make sense. It had to all have been a coincidence. He returned to the body’s side.

 

It was not the Zerith he had known, but as he gazed upon her features, he remembered the Zerith he _knew_. The freckles, the darkness in her hair, the horrific scars he gingerly cleaned when she was a child. He did not even recognize the peacefulness upon her face -- she had often been plagued by nightmares or invisible enemies. Though she looked peaceful, there was something disturbing about the lack of worry upon her features.

 

Her gear had been left behind, and Gandalf guessed whoever her assailants were did not intend to rob her. They left their message buried in her heart. Yet as he stared into the fire’s orange light cast upon her face, he realized that the most valuable thing she had in her life was not an object, nor even her _own_ life -- but something _within_ her.

 

Where was the dragon? Where was her fire? He only saw the horse’s charred remains. What had become of the dragon? He took her hand in his, and noticed its warmth again -- and he paid careful attention to it. He placed two shaky fingers under her jaw, trying to listen for her somewhere beyond the fire’s crackle. An eternity seemed to pass, and Gandalf was not satisfied with either answer. He rose unsteadily to his feet.

 

“She’s here,” Gandalf called out, his voice echoing throughout the cavern.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a VERY bad person, I know.
> 
> I'm sure you're wondering, "What now?". As for that, remember that I've 5 more chapters of this fanfic planned, and then some more after as we embark on a new and even more exciting journey. :)
> 
> Comments and suggestions are always welcome, and until the next chapter, I hope your life goes fantastically!


	16. Remembrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all,  
> I thought I'd change things up a bit to transition into the last part of this fic. This chapter focuses on small glimpses of the past which you didn't get to see in previous chapters. Let me know if you'd like to see more of this.
> 
> College is killing me atm, so I apologize for being a slow updater. I hate 8 AM classes, especially labs 5 days a week! Why did I change my major to biology... (I honestly considered/am considering switching again to math).

 

Chapter 16: Remembrance

 

Zerith had much to learn.

 

            Gandalf had finally agreed to train her in combat, despite his true wishes. The thought of training a _dragon_ unsettled him. If he had held fast in his refusal to help her, she would be one step closer into the Necromancer’s clutches. On the other hand, Gandalf feared emboldening her. If he taught her the sword, she’d want to understand the shield. And then the bow. And then her fire.

 

            Soon, she would want to practice her skills in the real world -- or the real world would require her to fight. Eventually, something or someone would come for her. She would have to be ready by then. Would it be five years from now? Ten? After Smaug’s shadow disappeared, the Necromancer had begun to rise and take his place. It would not be long before the effects of his presence would be felt upon Middle Earth.

 

            “I’m ready!” Zerith called, bouncing down the cottage stairs. He barely caught a glimpse of her joyful blue gaze beneath the oversized leather cap she tucked her hair into, though a few strands had already escaped. _All_ of her clothing was oversized. Leather boots that came up to her knees with puffy leather pants tucked into them, as well as a layered, stuffy-looking tunic. She tripped on the stairs as she smiled at him from beneath the tunic’s collar and was barely able to move to catch herself with the baggy sleeves.

 

            “You’ll never be able to move in that, and you will tire easily.” Gandalf told her sternly as she beamed up at him. Her smile vanished from her face.

 

            “But you told me you didn’t want me getting hurt! This is all padding!” The young girl retorted.

 

            “I do not want to see you hurt, but I will not allow _this_ ,” The Istari gestured, “If you are taught to fight in those clothes, you will get used to them. When you wear proper armor, it will feel strange. You are a young lady, not a ruffian.”

 

            “Why not both?” Zerith’s smile returned.

 

            Gandalf leaned heavily on his staff as he sat, rubbing his temples. His frustration did not disappear.

 

            “No, I think not. Instead you will be a boy,” The Grey Wizard declared.

 

            “A… boy?” Zerith blinked at him in shock before her face scrunched up in anger. “I don’t want to be--”

 

            “We shall go to Bree and find you some armor for a young soldier in-training. No one should look twice when you wear those clothes -- except for me.”

 

            “Really?” The young girl’s face softened as her face flushed. “Thank you, Gandalf.”

 

            “Be ready when the sun rises.” He said stiffly, but his upturned lip warmed his demeanor as Zerith happily bounced back up the stairs -- not stumbling.

 

            When morning came, they set off for Bree. It was a few days on foot, but Zerith looked as though she would not last the day in the heavy, baggy clothing she was wearing as a ‘boy’. Sweat ran down her face, but she seemed content to skip upon the stones of the East Road.

 

            “Will you ever take me to Lake Evendim? Annúminas? I’ve heard the ruins are beautiful. Full of history and things to explore!” She asked, tucking her dark black hair back into her cap.

 

            “Full of history and full of dangers.” Gandalf began, “One day, you will not need me to escort you across Middle Earth. I am an Istari. I did not come here to solely raise one child.” He smiled. “You will be a grown woman -- and hopefully, capable of defending yourself. You may go wherever you wish, though hopefully you choose the road that is safest.”

 

            “If I choose the road that is safest, perhaps my enemies will as well?” Zerith’s voice lowered, and when Gandalf looked back over at her, it seemed as though she had aged by half a decade. “And so, I should choose, perhaps, the most perilous. A road that no one should dare take.” She stared at the stones as she thought. “What about the middle path? No one considers that!”

 

            “It is wise to always consider the journey carefully,” The Istari agreed with a nod, watching the young girl net herself with contemplation.

 

            “I wish I could fly,” She sighed, “It would be so much easier. There aren’t many enemies in the skies, are there?”

 

            “Not many, no.” He looked over her sobered face with a raise of an eyebrow. “You take after your fire,”

            “I don’t want to,” She frowned.

 

            “You need not fear it completely. You may master it in time. What you fear, it seems, is not the fire itself, but whom it hurts. A wise dragon knows when to save his energy and spare the sheep. But you, Zerith, are also almost a woman, and you have grown to understand right from wrong. You care, and that shall be enough.”

 

            “Will it always be enough?” The young girl’s blue eyes glistened in the sunlight.

 

            “In indifference, the conscience dies. Where there is care, there is connection. Few people desire to break that connection willingly, unless they believe it will strengthen the overarching bond elsewhere.”

 

            “I don’t understand,” Zerith replied softly as the sun became cloaked in clouds.

 

            “You will one day,” Gandalf encouraged, resting a hand upon her shoulder as he strode down on the path, before she was freed again and he picked up the pace. Zerith stared at the middle of his back for a while, trying to understand what he had meant. She guessed she was too young to have meant to know but felt entirely unsatisfied with that answer. How could _anything_ she would end up doing be enough? She was just one small person in an unimaginably vast world. Her spark could be bright, but would it one day fade?

 

            She shivered as she tried to imagine her fate. Who would she be? What was causing the flame within her? Zerith doubted she could ever live a normal life -- nor did she think she wanted anything ‘normal’, anyway. It sounded much preferable to travel the world. When she had still lived in Minas Tirith, she would spend hours running upon the fields of Anórien with her father or reading history and adventure books within the city’s walls. She had always wanted something _more_ than to grow up to be a noble lady bound to marry a soldier and to bear his children. It seemed that if she went down that path, her presence upon the world would fade into the ground, melting beneath the sun.

           

            Adventuring on her own would be dangerous. Luckily, she had many years to go before venturing out by herself, but still worried about battling a terrible beast, being swept in a war, or dying all alone and forgotten.

 

            Beneath the shadow of Weathertop, Zerith lay in her bedroll, gazing up at the stars while Gandalf smoked his pipe and tended the fire. He had once told her the names of each star which Elbereth had cast into the sky; her mind was clouded with far too many images of sword fights to recall them. She hoped she would not disappoint him when he trained her. She had given every attention to when he spoke, greatly respecting her generosity and wisdom as a Maiar. Still, she would sometimes forget a word in Sindarin, confusing it with another word she had remembered reading in a book during her time in Minas Tirith. She asked many questions about Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits, and Men, but felt exasperated when trying to memorize the thousands of names and their connections.

 

            Everything gave her a headache when she thought about it. There had been so many events and wars led by so many people of so many houses, all under the same sky, more or less. How was she to remember them _all_?

 

            _I suppose not all of them are that important._ She sighed as she turned away from the fire’s light. _Some were great warriors or smiths, others wrote memorable poems. There were those who cast their people in darkness, and others who rose them into the light. They have importance -- but what shall help me?_ She fell asleep wondering who she could look up to as she grew from a young girl to a woman and resonated between an amateur scholar and warrior.

           

            Gandalf and Zerith arrived in Bree-town just as the first snowflakes of winter began to fall. Despite the transition from the harvest season to one Zerith considered to be somewhat desolate, the Breelanders were merry as they called out about their goods in the market square. Zerith kept herself tightly bound to the Istari’s side, but often had to run to catch up to him after something caught her eye and broke her adolescent attention span.

 

            “Are you sure we can find something that will fit me?” She asked Gandalf in a quiet voice as they passed through a narrow alleyway. Being in strange clothes should have made her feel self-conscious with so many people around, but she had come from a much larger city and hardly minded any strange looks. She had gotten used to them.

 

            “You are no giant yet. There are many armorers in this city, and many boys in need of training.”

 

            “But not many _girls_.” She retorted softly.

 

            “You’re not a girl, are you?” Gandalf stopped to look down at her gruffly from beneath the brim of his hat.

 

            “No, not anymore.” She smiled up at him. _Soon I’ll be a woman. And maybe I’ll become a dragon. And I’ll fly._

He led her through the streets, past young boys chasing cats and away from the shouts of exasperated mothers. Soon, she spotted a wooden sign wavering slightly with the cold wind, the chains that bound it to a wooden post clinking lightly. An anvil was painted upon its glossy surface against a mossy-yellow field. Zerith hear the loud echoing sound of a hammer striking steel; as they approached, she spotted sparks flying from within the open, roofed space. A man with long, curly black hair tied away from his face and a carefully managed beard was hammering a sword.

 

            “Wait here,” Gandalf murmured as he looked over his shoulder to where Zerith fidgeted.

 

            “Can I help you?” The blacksmith asked, a permanent frown etched on his face and in his uneasy eyes as he glossed over the Istari’s form. Zerith couldn’t hear most of their conversation beneath the piercing noises of more hammering or the sharpening wheels used in the back of the shoppe. The two men spoke for a while, before the blacksmith’s scrutinizing gaze flickered over to where she stood.

 

            “Come here,” The man’s voice rose above the roar as though he were speaking in silence. He gestured her to approach with one hand and she did so shakily; he gave her a once-over, turning her roughly. She imagined what the criticism in his demeanor might have said about her.

 

            “Scraggly,” He seemed to answer her thoughts, “Will be practically useless in a fight. I don’t see how he’ll build much muscle with whatever you’re feeding him. I think I can find something for him though.” Zerith suppressed a shiver. She felt like she were a hunting dog being poked and prodded at, with every inch of her body displaying her lack of skill or promise.

 

            _But I do have promise! I will be able to fight!_ She wanted to cry out. _And I can burn those who hurt me._

Life was not as easy as burning all her enemies away, however. She did not realize it yet, and it seemed as though it would be a long while before she understood just how much more complex reality was other than the good and the bad, the guilty and the innocent. Zerith could burn them all, yes, but hatred could spread quicker than even her fire, and she would never run out of those who would despise her.

 

            Gandalf and the blacksmith walked away to discuss prices while Zerith stood alone and dumbfounded. Maybe the blacksmith was right, she thought as her mood darkened. She was skinny and couldn’t lift much. She tired too easily after walking a few miles. She complained of hunger and thirst even when she knew she’d be alright a little while longer.

 

            When would the softness of city life be erased from her bones and the inside of her skin? If she closed her eyes, she could imagine the smells of Minas Tirith: the freshly-baked bread from the baker’s shop not too far from where she lived; the musty yet salty smell of the docks, where great ships would come to unload their wares; the crisp smell of ancient books long stored away, untouched for centuries; her mother’s minty perfume, mixed with the scent of flowers from her garden.

 

            _Mother._ Her mother would be ashamed of her, more than she already had to have been. Zerith had been taught to be a fine young lady of high birth. Fine young ladies don’t play with swords or roll around in the mud. But she did often get dirty when she spent time with her father. She would watch the guards of the White City spar when she waited for her father’s rounds to end. Even long after his death, she thought she could still hear the sharp ring of his sword, or the way he lithely moved as he practiced his strokes. There was always a uniqueness to the way he fought -- he had not been a trained rank-and-file soldier all of his life. The wilds had taught him how to protect himself earlier than any captain had. She wanted to be like him. She loved the books and dresses most of the time but dreamed of protecting her people with arms and the strength of her body and wit.

 

            There were very few people left for her to protect. But she would try.

 

            “Hello,” A voice called out right next to her, causing her to jump out of her thoughts. She turned, bewildered, to see a boy no more than a couple years older than her flashing her a toothy, yet shy, smile. His hair was red but shone with gold in the sunlight. She couldn’t guess the color of his eyes, for she saw many colors swirling within them.

 

            “Hello,” She answered, remembering to use a lower, more ‘manly’ sounding voice. It came out sounding like she had a sore throat and a cold.

 

            “Sorry for scaring you,” He stuttered, “But I noticed you were over here and thought I might say hi. Don’t let him trouble you,” They both looked toward the blacksmith, who seemed to be in a heated debate with Gandalf. “I think you’ll be okay. The hardest part’s starting out, y’know?”

 

            “Yeah, I know.” She agreed.

 

            “If you ever want to, maybe we could spar sometime together?” He perked up. “A-After you’ve practiced a bit, of course.”

 

            Her heart sank.

 

            “I would, but I’m not from Bree.” Her voice nearly gave out as she watched the boy’s smile fade, quickly replaced by poorly-disguised disappointment.

 

            “That’s okay,” He forced a laugh, “I... guess I won’t see you around, but maybe when you visit next!”

 

            “Yeah, I hope so.” Her lips curled softly.

 

            “See you then,” He waved as he began to walk backwards and up the cobblestone road towards the Prancing Pony. Her eyes followed him as he went, and lingered long after she could no longer see him.

 

            “Come along, now.” She heard Gandalf’s voice a few lengths away, gesturing for her to follow. He carried a small pack with was nearly bursting, filled with what she guessed was armor, or weapons, or really whatever a soldier-in-training needed.

 

            “We aren’t staying at the Prancing Pony?” She asked in a soft voice, careful with the blacksmith’s eyes following her as she trotted alongside the Istari, struggling to match his strides.

 

            “No,” The Grey Wizard said.

 

            “It’s closer,” Zerith countered.

 

            “The sooner you are home, the sooner you can begin to learn.”

 

            Zerith opened her mouth to respond again, but closed it when she realized why he didn’t want to stay in Bree.

 

            First, she was a girl. Surprisingly, she had managed to spot a few female guards near the gates and the jailhouse. Nevertheless, training women how to use weapons was atypical.

 

            Second, her scars and her fire. Her scars were plainly obvious. Not that it was impossible for a woman to be scarred, but hers marred her face and stuck out like a sore thumb. Her fire could be better hidden if she could keep her temper. Zerith’s fear and remembrance of what she had done in Minas Tirith kept the coals swallowed and buried deeply within her stomach.

 

            _Would that boy have come up to me if he had known I was a girl? If he had known about my fire?_ She thought. _No. He wouldn’t._

People weren’t supposed to speak fire. They weren’t supposed to hurt innocent people. Women weren’t supposed to fight in battles.

 

            But she _could_ speak fire. And she did hurt innocent people, despite how cruel they were to her verbally. She never wanted to hurt an innocent again, but she _knew_ her fire would burn again. And she _would_ fight in a battle. Several, perhaps. One day she would go looking for the source of her fire and she would have to light up a path in the darkness to find it.

 

She would fight. And she would fly.

 

-o-

 

Fat yielded to muscle, and as Zerith lengthened, her body molded itself into that of a lean and fit woman. Years of teaching under the unrelenting Istari had left her muscles sore and her body exhausted, but conditioned. Even her mind seemed to have been affected. Part of herself had risen from the mists of uncertainty and fear.

 

As she became strong and proficient in weaponry (except for the bow, for which she would have better luck smacking someone with than actually using arrows), however, something felt _missing._ There were no words to describe it, so she couldn’t ask her guardian. She thought he knew, though. He had grown even more grim as she grew up, which she previously thought impossible.

 

The nightmares began.

 

It was cold. She was naked. She felt loved. She felt _good_. Then she turned around, and her arms and legs froze into the ground as a knife twisted inside of her, icy-hot and piercing. She screamed when she saw the face.

 

There was red. She came home. She longed for comfort. What she received was two corpses. She killed a man. She fled the city just as chaos erupted.

 

A battle broke out. She smelled flesh burning and melting, along with the grease of the machines of war. Something overtook her as she began to die, lost among a sea of bodies. She burned them _all._

 

There were visions. Of history, of dragons, of betrayal and of love. Of _choices._ She couldn’t tell if she made the right choice, but a choice was made.

 

It was dark. Her body felt broken. Someone had taken something from her. There was a jar. Fire flickered at her cheek, yet it didn’t burn. Cold pierced her heart. She heard a roar. The thing she cared for most dearly was stolen from her.

 

Gandalf would rush in at the sound of her screams, shaking her sweating form until she awoke from the nightmares. Each time, she would describe them vividly to him. He wore that wrinkled, troubled expression long after she confessed her nightmares to him, a look that only a Maiar might have.

 

“I feel like I’m going insane,” She said softly after he shook her awake yet again.

 

“You are deeply troubled. It is no mark of insanity. Even I am greatly disturbed by all you have recounted, Zerith.” Gandalf rested a comforting hand on her shoulder as they sat on the edge of her bed. She ran her hands through her tangled black hair before looking down at her lap.

 

“Whenever I see them in my nightmares, I just want to _burn them all_. But I don’t want to. I don’t know who these people are and why they’re hurting me. But there are bells ringing in my head, breaking down the barrier between emotion and reason. My heart feels like it’s burning, Gandalf. It’s not just the oversalted roast beef I made for dinner last night,” Zerith added with a laugh as she met his gaze with a smile, attempting to break the tension.

 

“No,” The corners of his lips upturned, “But I know that we must decipher the meanings behind your dreams. Perhaps it is best if you leave the troubling to me. You are far too pale from these events to run your mind and willpower into the ground.”

 

“But they _affect_ me, Gandalf. Every day, they have to be!” She exclaimed. “It must be from my fire. It’s always been the fire. I don’t know if I want it. It hasn’t helped me thus far.”

 

“That does not mean it cannot,” The Istari interjected quickly.

 

“In every nightmare, it seems to have hurt. Many people could die because of _me._ All this time, I’ve been such a fool. I’ve wanted to use my gift to protect. How can it ever protect?”

 

“There is no evil in you, no more than any in Men, Elves, Hobbits, or Dwarves. There is conflict, but you are young. You are far too young to worry about such matters, Zerith.”

 

“Can you explain the nightmares, then? I was somewhere very cold and snowy in some of them. Where could I have been? And there were people hurting me, _stealing_ something from me. It must be the fire. Is it my future? Is my future to be hurt, betrayed, and left alone? You’ll leave me one day. You must. I don’t blame you for that. You’re a Wizard, not a wet nurse.” Tears began to run down her cheek.

 

The Istari looked away from her wet cheeks, running a hand through his beard pensively. Zerith could not quantify just how much time had passed; she had never seen him so quiet and thoughtful. Guilt began to creep upon her skin as she watched his face, scanning for any sort of expression to hint at what he was thinking of.

 

“The North,” He began, “There is no land more frozen and inhospitable than the North. As to why you were there...”

 

“It’s because of the dragon, isn’t it?” Zerith interjected, her voice soft and watery. “And the Withered Heath?”

 

“I have a strong belief that it is so,” He replied hesitantly, “You are right that I cannot stay by your side forever. Everything I have done for you, however, was to ensure that you would not lack the ability to look after yourself. I do not doubt -- and neither should you -- that our paths will cross again after they diverge.”

 

“You do seem to involve yourself heavily with dragons,” Her eyes welled again, but she smiled.

 

“There was only one, and I can say that I was hardly involved with the Lonely Mountain.”

 

“Only _one?_ There may be another one day, and many more the next! Perhaps never as large as the first dragons, but can you say with certainty that the time of dragons is past?”

 

“You live, and as long as that is true, I should not think of any reasons why their legacy shall end, as sullen upon Middle Earth as it may have been.”

 

Zerith seemed as satisfied with that answer as she could have ever been. She wiped her cheeks dry with her sleeve and stood up, stretching her arms above her head. She left the room without looking back at him and wandered down to the basement. Wearing her white nightdress, she picked up a training sword and swung at the straw dummy until the nightmares were washed from her mind. She did not hear Gandalf’s footsteps descending the stairs, nor when he left. Eventually her eyelids drooped too much for her to see where she was swinging, so she retreated to her room and fell into a dreamless, exhausting sleep.

 

-o-

 

The winds of winter were heavy upon Zerith’s cloak as she walked the East Road toward Bree. She could see the east gate in the distance, the gloss of its whitish wood dulled in the sunlight-stealing pale sky. Her feet were aching, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, dried from disuse.

 

She imagined what Gandalf would have said if he had found out she had gone to Bree instead of Rivendell like he suggested when she asked him a few years prior.

 

“East, if you long for the North and the Withered Heath. You will find few friends in Arnor, and even less if you try to go towards the Forodwaith. Angmar -- you would walk into the hands of the Enemy, and they desire your power more strongly than any being.”

 

Gandalf was not there to lecture her on which way she went, however. He had disappeared along with Uirien. She had waited a few months for him back at the Angle. He had not returned. She stopped waiting and started walking.

 

_To go to the North I must go south. I fear asking Imladris for passage without the Istari by my side._ Zerith thought as she pulled her hood over her head, tucking in her dark hair. _Who would want to support a woman with a dragon and fire in her breath?_

Deep in her heart, however, Zerith did not feel ready. She had begun preparations to set off towards the Withered Heath and the North, hoping to find whatever answers lie buried there in wait for her to discover them. Still, it would take a year, she guessed, to travel there on foot. There had to be a quicker way.

 

Her hand travelled to the pouch of gold attached to her hip near her sword. Some of those coins had been carried by her when she originally left Minas Tirith. The rest she had earned whenever they visited Bree, or from Gandalf ‘misplacing’ them. She had always saved them. It felt wrong to spend them when they were intended for one sole purpose.

 

_To leave,_ Zerith realized. _Nothing lasts forever. The Istari left my side as he had to. He’s been in Middle Earth for thousands of years. That residence is the most permanent thing about him, if you could even consider it permanent for a Maiar._

The guards at the gate let her in with a nod, and Zerith’s nose quickly picked up the scent of pork roasting in one of the nearby houses as she pushed past a small crowd of people. Bree was nothing like Minas Tirith, she thought. In Minas Tirith, the abundance of people was a veil. Here, while the city was populous, it was far easier to stick out.

 

Zerith _always_ seemed to stick out. Once, she tried to cover her scars. She still felt eyes on her. Another time, she attempted to act like a normal, well-to-do young lady. That was exactly what it turned out to be -- an act.

 

_One purpose here,_ she reminded herself as she ascended the cobblestone hill. _And one purpose only._ She saw a flash of red hair as she passed a blacksmith’s shop and almost thought to turn towards whoever it belonged to, but chastised herself as she nearly knocked into a young child walking in her path. Hearing a tongue click, she saw that she had earned the ire of the child’s mother.

 

_It’s always something with you._ She thought with a grimace. _The elf. The Wizard. The dragon. The Tarakona and their warrior woman._

 

Eventually she picked up the smell of manure, begrudgingly following her nose towards where a pasture materialized from the frame of stony houses. Zerith’s heart sank, however, when she saw only sheep and pigs.

 

A ginger-haired woman was sweeping the street and at the sight of her crestfallen face, leaned on her broom. “You look like you need somethin’. Can I help you?” She wiped the dirt from her face.

 

“I was hoping to find somewhere I could buy a horse. Or _someone_ , rather.” Zerith smiled bashfully. The last thing she thought to do when alone was to appear as though she did not know what she was doing.

 

_But that is somewhat true. You don’t really know what you’re doing._ She chided. _The egg-shard, the prophecy stone. What does it all really mean, anyway?_

“You’re not a Ranger, are you? Lose your steed in the swamp?” The woman asked, her face crinkling.

 

_Do Bree-folk like or despise Rangers? Should I say yes or no?_ Zerith contemplated.

 

“Something of the sort.” She spluttered, fidgeting with her hood.

“Come with me,” The woman beckoned with one hand as she rounded the corner, and Zerith breathed a sigh of relief. “We have one we’ve been trying to get to sell. No one’s buying. Can’t blame them. The stallion’s a handful. But if you think you can handle him...”

 

Zerith stopped at the woman’s side to follow the line where her hand gestured. Inside the pen stood a tall bay steed, swishing his long tail next to a burly man who stood brushing him, eating an apple in the other hand. The man bent over, holding the apple away from his body. The horse took the opportunity to snatch it from his hand. When the man went to take another bite of the apple, he found that it was gone.

 

“What in the--” The man began before looking over to where the horse’s neck arched. He leaned in slightly and took a whiff. “Damn it!”

 

Zerith began to laugh, looking into the horse’s dark eyes and knowing she saw mischief written within them. At the sound of her laughter, the man stumbled as he turned.

 

“Oh, not another one, Myrtie!” He cried, shaking his head at the ginger-haired woman who began to laugh quietly.

 

“The woman seems interested. First one we’ve had laugh. That’s something, at least.” She looked over to where Zerith stood. “What do you think? Fine breeding, just a knack for trouble. Rides fine, though.”

 

“How much?” Zerith asked with a beaming grin. Upon hearing what she asked, the man leaned against the pen, his face in his hands.

 

Within the hour, Zerith was leaving atop the bay stallion, whose head seemed to swish happily as they rode out of Bree and back towards her cottage home. He didn’t seem to be much trouble at all -- yet. At least she knew he enjoyed apples.

 

“Now, what to name you...”

 

-o-

 

Hassun decided that he really did hate Southern cities.

 

They were impossibly noisy, crowded, and _smelly_ to boot. He had put up with it in Bree, because he had a duty he had to fulfill for his people. Edoras was open at least and reminded him of his homeland.

 

Minas Tirith, however, seemed to want to push him out with every step he took. Even as he wandered in to meet his kin in one of the taverns, his drink didn’t sit right in his belly. The Tarakona man was not at all picky about liquor or ale, but something felt off. The laughs as his kinsman talked about his travels felt almost forced. He leaned back in his creaking wooden chair, yet could not get comfortable.

 

Perhaps it was because he had left Zerith by herself. At least she was with Applegrabber. The horse was too smart for his own good. Hassun wanted to trust her setting off on her own. It was the city of her birth and where she had resided, after all.

 

Still, he _worried._ She was going to see her mother, who she had not exactly parted on amiable terms. She left her mother, her home, and everything behind in a blaze. Zerith had burned those children and fled the city. If anyone recognized her, there would surely be some very piercing questions asked.

 

Hassun did his best to convince himself that his worries about her were mostly fruitless.

 

_She’s armed._ He began to reason. _With a horse. She has her fire. She knows the city. She has me._ His train of thought shattered. _No, I’m sitting here drinking. Does she have me?_

_Does she...would she want me?_ He swallowed hard, the ale burning as it travelled down his throat. _To help her, of course. Zerith’s an independent woman. She’s hardened. Been forced to embark on her own too many times than she’d like. She can take care of herself._

 

“Is something wrong, Hassun?” His kinsman asked him just loud enough to be audible amongst the conversations of the tavern’s other patrons.

 

“Not at all. It has been a long journey, and we are not quite there yet.” Hassun replied stiffly.

 

“You seem on edge. Is it the woman?” The kinsman tried his best to remain formal with the Chieftain’s son, but Hassun spotted the corners of his upturned lips and his gut sank at his suggestion.

 

“Nothing like that.” Hassun said too quickly. “I’ve been here a while, though. She is probably waiting for me.”

 

“Shall we leave the city together?”

“Wait for me at the city gates with the ones you have recruited.” Hassun scattered a few coins across the table as he finished his drink as he left the tavern, swimming through an ocean of people as he ascended the White City, towards the Fifth Level.

 

Thanking his memory, he passed lush gardens lining elegantly sloped houses as he moved towards the south end of the city. With each passing moment, the hammering in his chest grew more intense.

 

_What is wrong with me?_ His body felt like a taut bowstring, ready to fire as soon as he spotted his mark. Few times had he been so ready as he felt then. All he longed for was to see Zerith, alive and safe.

 

Suddenly, he heard something igniting from the other end of the city. The energy in the air shifted as screams broke the buzzing of conversation. Guards began to rush toward the sound. He looked over his shoulder to see fire spreading. He began to run, remembering Zerith’s description of where she once lived. Hassun would not stop until he found her and made sure she was safe.

 

As he paused to catch his break and look for the house Zerith had described to him, he felt a familiar presence at his side. He turned to see his kinsman with a few other men he had recruited from the city for their people’s cause.

 

“Forgive me, but I knew that look in your eyes when you sensed danger. I will not abandon the Chieftain’s son in times of need.” The kinsman said, his hand resting upon his sword.

 

“Hopefully it should not be as serious as you believe. Come, then.” Hassun continued on with the others not far behind. As they continued further, the population thinned out, and rain began to fall.

 

He spotted the dark house against the city’s white walls as the rain blossomed into a thunderstorm, and the bay stallion stabled near the house who was frantically attempting to free himself from where his reins had been tethered. Hassun waved for his companions to stay low near a hedge, hearing voices from within the house. They waited a while in the rain, before the door slowly opened.

 

A hooded, sulking man first left, donned in an ornately-patterned black tunic and pants which peeked out from beneath his dark cloak. As he turned his head to watch the door, Hassun spotted the disfiguring burn scars which had completely warped his face.

 

A red-haired woman left the house next, running the few fingers she had left on her hands through her hair. Jewels glittered from the leathery neck of the man who stood beside her beneath the outcropping of roof. The pair looked up, and Hassun guessed that they might have been siblings.

 

More people left the house as Hassun’s gut sank further. He smelled something metallic amongst the rain. _Blood_. He drew his sword as quietly as he could, his companions following suit.

“You all know your places. Get to them. Meet me back here so we may arrange for her to be transported.” The wax-faced man commanded to the people gathered before him.

 

_‘Arrange for her?’_ Hassun thought. _Zerith_.

 

Before the kidnappers-to-be could follow through with his command, Hassun stepped boldly into their path, his sword drawn. The red-haired woman and her fellows drew their own weapons, but faltered as they saw they were almost evenly matched in number. The burned man, however, only laughed.

 

“Are you lost? This is not the way North.” He mocked idly, looking up at the rain.

 

“If I find out you have harmed her, I shall lop off your horrifically twisted head and mount it atop this city’s battlements.” The Tarakona man threatened, feeling his blood began to boil.

 

“Save yourself the trouble,” The burned man replied, nodding to the others. Steel met steel as the fight began.

 

-o-

 

Aching, bleeding, and dirty, Hassun managed to fight his way into the house, his brothers-in-arms chasing Zerith’s assailants off to allow him time. Applegrabber waited outside anxiously in a stall, Hassun having freed him on the promise that he would hopefully bring Zerith to him so that they could flee the chaos.

 

As soon as Hassun entered the house, all he could see were trails of blood on the smooth floor. It was eerily quiet as he slowly cleared the rooms, bloodied sword drawn and hand shaking with the onset of pain and exhaustion. Each vacant room made him increase his efforts.

 

_How could she have survived that?_ He did not smell her fire. It had been scorched into his brain from when he discovered who she truly was, after burning the hungry pack of wolves. _She must be alive. I won’t believe that she is not._

 

Hassun nearly jumped at the crack of lightning overhead, reaching the kitchens to be met with a corpse, its face unrecognizable after being brutalized. His eyes searched for the weapon, but the scene was too bloody to spot anything of note. The Tarakona man had to look away, feeling sickened.

 

_She could not have done that, surely._ He thought, or perhaps hoped. _Such force?_

 

He continued onward, searching the other rooms, before picking up a trail of blood trailing the last hallway he had not yet searched. Hassun looked upon the walls, searching the faces of the many portraits lining the walls of the noblewoman’s house. He thought he saw the shine of Zerith’s gaze in them. Had he had the time and a moment of peace, he would have guessed as to what kind of people her family members had been. A boom shook the house from somewhere outside.

_So they have caused their diversion_ , Hassun thought. _I am running out of time._

 

Hassun entered the room at the end of the hallway as quietly as he could. As soon as he was out of the doorway, he saw her, standing before two corpses and weeping silently. The first corpse was that of an older, mustached man with his throat slit, his pale lifeless eyes looking up toward the ceiling. The other corpse was an older woman with bronzed hair, her blue dress drenched in blood from where she had been stabbed in the stomach. Her body slumped into the chair, close to sliding from it to join with the other deceased person.

 

Zerith stood before them, her armor disjointed on her frame, covered with sticky blood that had begun to dry in her hair. Bruises were beginning to purple upon her neck and wrists. A sword he did not recognize was sheathed at her hip, and she carried a large pointed shield, painted white with a black tree and silver wing as its motif.

 

He approached her slowly, unable to guess as to if she would startle at his silence or a shout. The floorboard beneath his feet betrayed him with a creak. She went for her sword almost sluggishly and he swiftly moved to wrap his arms around her, cradling her mouth gently before she could cry out.

 

“Easy, easy, Zerith. It’s me, Hassun,” He said. She tried to fight again before falling to her knees. He fell with her, making sure she did not hurt either of them if she were to brandish her sword.

 

He took her wrists, burned by her rope bindings, gingerly beneath his calloused fingers, slowly turning her around so that she could see him.

 

Zerith stared at his as though he were a ghost. Perhaps she thought he _was_ , after two of her loved ones had been killed. He took in her wet, deep blue eyes, and the pinkish tears which fell from her jaw to the floor. He took a deep breath to steady himself. She needed _his_ strength.

 

“We need to leave the city now. Applegrabber is ready and waiting outside. My kin, some mercenaries from the city, and I came here to get you, but we saw the strange men and women exiting the house. We engaged in combat with them and my kin and his contacts managed to chase them off through the lower Levels. Whoever those people were, they started a fire that called the guards’ attention before you visited your mother. After they retreated, they set off another catastrophe to mask their escape. As soon as I had a moment, I ran to find you.”

 

Her eyes flickered past his shoulder to where the bodies were. His heart twisted as his eyes followed hers. He wanted to take her face in his hands and never let her see such horrible sights ever again.

 

“Whatever you are thinking, I promise you, we will make them pay for what they have done to you. But we cannot stay here much longer. You are not safe.” He shook her shoulders lightly, hoping to break her trance.

 

Her eyes were swimming as she thought. Horrified, Hassun thought that she seemed to fade into a corpse along with the other two members of her family.

 

With a sigh, he peeled the sword in her hand out of her fingers and sheathed it at her hip, before picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder, his hands steadying her at her thighs. The shield she held bounced lightly along his shoulder.

 

Hassun took her from the chaos of the city, riding atop Applegrabber through Anórien. It was vital that he try to put as much distance from her enemies as he could as soon as possible. She drifted in and out of consciousness, her head resting beneath his chin as she leaned back in the saddle. His wounds stung and his muscles ached, but he temporarily willed the pain away as he held her tightly against him.

 

Eventually, Applegrabber was tiring, and so was he. If he did not tend to his wounds soon, they would fester, and he would weaken. They still had a long journey ahead of them to reach the North.

 

Zerith seemed to be awake as they stopped beneath the canopy of the forest, for she was able to sit upright as he dismounted. He gritted his teeth to keep from groaning in pain, but winced as he helped her from the saddle. She pressed her face into Applegrabber’s flank as he went to start a fire.

 

“You’re hurt,” She said in a broken voice as he struggled to sit before the flames, “let me help you.” His eyes struggled to see in the oppressive darkness of the forest, so he looked into the fire instead, his face warm as she slowly approached him.

 

Hassun tried to protest, but Zerith looked toward the gash on his knee which still bled and began to remove his boot. He sat rigidly, fearing to make a movement that would scare her away. At the same time, however, her tenderness and close proximity was making him uncomfortable.

 

She rolled up his pant leg as he stared at her and began to tend to his wound. Zerith cleaned it with water from her waterskin before pressing a healing poultice to his knee lightly and binding it with strips of fabric.

 

When she had finished with his knee, her eyes examined his chest, where most of his cuts had bled onto his white undershirt. Without a word, her fingers hooked beneath his shirt and pulled it up and over his head, placing it next to her.

 

He stayed still and statue-like as she continued to care for him. In his contemplation, he wondered what had gotten into her. She may have once been gentle of heart, but not gentle in practice, and certainly not to him, although she had once offered to care for his wounds on the first night they had camped together. He had _feared_ her touch and refused her aid, after realizing what and who he was dealing with.

 

Now, he could not imagine fearing her, not with the way her eyes would softly look up at his face to gauge his pain. Rather, he wanted to take her lovely face in his hands and kiss her reverently. What he desired more than anything was _her_ , and to show her just how deeply his desires lay.

 

_She is too close to let such thoughts roam freely_ , Hassun hissed to himself. _And this is not the right time._

 

She deserved more. It certainly was _not_ the right time. One touch, and he feared he would shatter her as though she were made of glass. He almost thought he was insulting her by thinking her so frail, but he knew her better, and was also familiar with loss.

 

Loss of loved ones could completely change someone. He did not want to lose her. He was close to believing he loved her, as much as it pained his heart to think about.

 

Zerith helped him put his shirt back on before she went to the river. As soon as her back was turned, he lay back upon the earth and thought about just how much trouble he had gotten himself into by meeting her.

 

_It is worth it, no matter what else should happen,_ Hassun thought.

 

-o-

 

It had taken Gandalf far longer to reach Imladris with Zerith than he hoped. Radagast’s wisdom and navigation of the forest roads in Middle Earth had greatly aided them, but he could still not count just how many days had passed between taking her limp form from the cave and delivering her to the Houses of Healing.

 

Lord Elrond was doing everything in his power to care for her. The Istari’s faith in him had never wavered. Still, he had his work cut out for him, and Gandalf was not envious.

 

As for Zerith, something very peculiar and dark in nature had tried to take her life. Whether it was successful, Gandalf could not guess, for her body had not stiffened or begun to rot. He touched her neck and almost assumed there to be warmth beneath her skin, yet she was deathly pale and unnaturally cold. Her stab wound was dark and twisted.

 

_Work of the Necromancer,_ he thought to himself as he sat with his fellow Istari at his side, smoking his pipe. _No normal blade could have caused such a wound._

_Could it have stolen a soul?_ Gandalf wondered.

 

There was the matter of the dragon. Zerith had been gagged, so she could not have unleashed her fire. But when she had been stabbed, what had the dragon done? Inhuman strength could have overtaken her prior wounds and state of exhaustion. If that had been the case, why had she been stabbed so cleanly, and where did the dragon disappear to? Had he truly been stolen from her?

 

“Things will sort themselves out, Mithrandir,” Radagast spoke softly. The Grey Wizard simply stared on through the loops of smoke.

 

“They should, but these are no ordinary events. The soul of a dragon is not ordinarily placed into a woman’s body. And it was no ordinary wound she received, to put her in such a state as lying upon the ends of life and of death. The dragon would not have given up the fight so easily unless other factors we have not considered had a part to play,” Gandalf responded.

 

“You do not believe she has passed on, then?”

 

“Her limbs are not rigid. She is pale and cold, yet preserved. She has not awoken, however, regardless of any of our efforts. There is one possibility, albeit far more perplexing, that I had not the desperation to consider...”

 

“You do not mean to suggest whoever has hurt her meant to turn her into a Wraith,” Radagast said in an even quieter tone, careful of any elves who happened to pass them by.

 

“She was meant to be killed. Her murderer failed in that regard. Why has she not already died, or awoken?”

 

“Wraiths have not existed in a very long time, Mithrandir. Not _new_ ones, at least. I did not examine her wound as closely as Lord Elrond and yourself did, but I did not guess it to be from a Morgul-blade.”

 

“Our enemies grow in number and in area,” Gandalf continued, finally breaking his gaze to meet his companion’s eyes. “The parts of the war machine have evolved. So must we. I realized that after chasing the Elf-Witch. Now, after leaving Zerith and seeing what she has sustained, I know that these parts have woven themselves together into one message: War.”

 

“War?”

 

“Inevitably,” He said slowly, “It has not yet reached the height of its threat. Soon, however, its shadow will cast us all into darkness. Who among the races of Men, Hobbits, Elves, and Dwarves should stand up to bring the world back into the light?”

 

“You do not believe Zerith’s effect in this struggle is over, then. I have known you for an impossibly long time, my friend. If you think that you have failed her, you will do whatever is within your power to right your wrongs. ‘For the sake of our duty in Middle Earth’, you would say.”

“Duty and responsibility,” The Grey Wizard replied.

 

“Then let us allow the responsibility of bringing her back into the world of the living to those best suited to carry the task out, while we busy ourselves in understanding each piece of this puzzle that we say is War.”

 

 

           

           

 

           

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're looking for some sort of answers and closure regarding Zerith's fate, you'll have to wait for the next chapter. ;)


End file.
